Innocent Deceptions
by Nataliia
Summary: Erik and Christine meet under unusual circumstances and the past returns to haunt them both. Can their fragile hearts survive their Innocent Deceptions?  E/C - Complete
1. Unexpected Meetings

Insert Standard Disclaimer Here

A/N - Trying something a bit different from my other story. I don't have as much of this one written ahead of time so expect updates to come more sporadically than "Help Me Say Goodbye."

**Chapter One - Unexpected Meetings**

Dawn saw the stirring of the stage crew of the Palais Garnier as boys young and old hurried to the kitchen to eat before they had to begin their day's work. Dress rehearsal for the opera, _Faust_, was to begin today and all the stagehands were required to be present at least thirty minutes before the cast. Joseph Buquet would be giving out assignments on this day which caused a ripple of unrest throughout the crew. It was well known that Buquet was a lecherous old drunk whose penchant for little girls was only slightly less than his love of blue ruin. It was also well known that he gave his favorite cronies the best jobs while those who'd crossed him were relegated to the top most of the fly tower. Chris, a slim lad of between ten and thirteen, was popular amongst the men for he would exchange whatever job he was given for one high up in the flies. The boy spoke little but rumor had it he was once a sailor who'd run rigging on a smuggling vessel before it was shot from the water by pirates. Since most folk cared little for his background and left him alone to do his job, he chose to neither affirm nor deny the claims. If the crew were talking _about _him, they weren't talking _to_ him and that suited him just fine.

As soon as they were dismissed, Chris contemplated those who were given the fly jobs. An older stagehand, Larry, had thwarted the pervert's latest conquest giving the little ballet rat time to scurry back under the protective wings of Madame Giry. Knowing that the man's vision had been failing and his balance wasn't what it used to be, Buquet deliberately placed him at the top of the tower for costing him his bit of fun. When the senior stage hand left to unearth his secret stash of cheap rum, Chris approached Larry and offered to take his place on the flies. Thanking the boy profusely, the old man promised him an extra portion of lunch and sent him on his way. Satisfied that he'd retained his favorite job, Chris began scampering nimbly up the ladders and ropes to the top of the fly tower. As he passed the rest of crew during his ascent, he slowed his pace slightly to listen to the latest gossip about the infamous Opera Ghost. Like most of the cast and crew, it appeared the apparition had a keen distaste for La Carlotta, their newest diva. Chuckling softly at some of the tricks played on the temperamental soprano, Chris found he liked their ghost more and more. And though Monsieur LeFevre had resisted his demands at first, he'd learned the hard way that things would be done _his_ way in _his_ opera house. After the lesson was learned, the Palais Garnier ran the smoothest it had in years and brought a fine fortune to the management.

Settled comfortably at the top of the tower, Chris had little to do during this first rehearsal. Since the cast were finalizing the blocking of the ballet and chorus, the various backdrops would remain locked in place. As he watched Madame Giry put the girls through their paces, he thought he saw a shadow below him move and held his breath. Would he finally get to see the infamous Fantôme de L'Opéra for himself? Staying as still and quiet as a church mouse, the boy carefully watched the suspicious shadow to see if it moved again. Interested he may be; stupid he was not. Just because he wished to see the ghost didn't mean he wished to _be_ seen by the ghost. Coming to the ghost's attention often had permanent consequences. Just as he thought he'd imagined things, a man's form emerged from the shadows and quietly ran along the catwalks towards stage right. As the ghost agilely navigated the web of ropes that made up the flies, it was clear to the boy that this was no true poltergeist. For one, he was certain that ghosts did not cast a shadow. Also, this 'ghost' was quite confined to the material world's usage of solid objects upon which to travel. Chris pondered what would cause a man to hide in an opera house to play ghost. It was quite an interesting conundrum.

Lunchtime approached and Chris quickly descended, his leather gloves protecting his hands from the rope when he chose to slide down rather than climb the ladders. His swiftness was rewarded when he was the first one to get his lunch. A bowl of hearty stew and a chunk of crusty bread were accompanied by a glass of water. The other men teased the boy about not drinking wine or beer like the others his age but he shrugged them off. Preferring to work the fly tower, he wanted nothing that would impair his balance so far up. He was on his way out when Buquet staggered in, already smelling like he'd bathed in his rum instead of drank it. Upset to discover that old Larry had been replaced by the young man, the stagehand grabbed Chris' shoulder as he tried to slip past.

"Hey lads, look. It's the pretty little fly boy." Buquet's cronies all laughed and started crowding around the boy. The rest of the stage hands watched in horror but didn't rise to help; fighting meant their jobs and fighting Buquet often meant their lives. "Tell me, fly boy, you and old Larry got a thing going we should know about? Are you keeping his cot warmed at night?" Making a lewd gesture, the elder stagehand leaned in close causing Chris to wrinkle his nose at the smell of stale rum. "You look so much like a girl; it's probably all the same in the dark." The small crowd roared again. Finally feeling the grip on his shoulder loosening, the boy slipped under his arm and fled up the ropes. Rubbing his bruised shoulders, he cursed softly. One day he was going to kill that lecherous old drunk.

After lunch, Monsieur LeFevre gathered all of the cast and crew for an announcement. He confirmed that the rumors of his impending retirement were true and that he'd secured the new managers of the opera house. After introducing Messieurs Andre and Firmin to the cast, he called over La Carlotta and Ubaldo Piangi, their lead tenor. The managers said all that was polite but their eyes strayed more to the ballet corps than their leads or their conductor. Chris almost felt sorry for them for the Opera Ghost wasn't known to have patience and these men looked like the kind that felt only they knew what was best. It was going to be interesting in the coming weeks until they learned who really ran the opera house. La Carlotta was requested to sing to the new managers and, unfortunately for anyone who wasn't tone deaf, she agreed. Running a cat down a washboard couldn't have sounded any worse. Believing herself to be 'impressive,' she was more creative than usual with the high notes. A sudden movement on the catwalk above the stage caught his eye and Chris watched as the ghost displayed his displeasure for their current lead soprano by cutting the ropes to a backdrop so it fell almost on her head. When the expected tantrum ensued, Chris couldn't stifle his laughter at the ghost's trick. Suddenly, he was no longer just watching the ghost; he was being watched _by_ the ghost. Though the stark white of the mask on the right side of his face intrigued the young crewman, he figured that was a puzzle for another day. Smiling, he gave the ghost a small salute and was surprised by the elegant bow that was returned. A sound below distracted him for mere seconds but, when he looked again, the ghost was gone.

Erik quietly walked through the dimly lit tunnels as he pondered the boy who had seen him from the flies. Unlike the others on the crew, he neither drank while on duty nor did he chase after the ballet rats; but stranger than that, he'd laughed and then saluted the pranks of the Opera Ghost instead of giving away his position. Strange. What did he know about the young flyman? He'd noticed the lad when he'd first started, he knew everyone in his theatre after all, and had been struck by his apparent frailty. To be approaching his teens, he was still extremely small in stature. He estimated the child was no taller than 5'3" if that and might weight 100 pounds soaking wet. He always dressed rather shabbily in patched trousers, an oversized shirt and suspenders. Only the boots and ever present cap looked fairly new but even they weren't in prime condition. Perhaps he was an orphan, then, or a street rat trying to leave a life of crime on the streets? No one knew for certain for the lad rarely spoke and spent his time up in the uppermost flies. In fact several of the older men in the crew watched over the boy believing him to be younger than what he claimed. It was only that disgusting Buquet who gave Chris a hard time. Once he'd discovered the boy was popular amongst the rest of the crew, Buquet had delighted in tormenting the child on a regular basis. A strong, burly man who was more beer gut than muscle, he especially loved comparing the petite boy to a girl and suggesting all sorts of crude reasons for his popularity. Erik frowned. Perhaps it was time to pay a visit to the Chief of the Flies?

Back in his underground home, Erik tossed his hat and cloak into a chair and walked over to the large pipe organ. It had taken him several nights to bring all the pieces to the landing by the lake, and then several more days to transport them all to his home. The gondola was too light to carry many pieces at a time and the lake too deep to simply walk them across. Another week had passed as he reassembled and tuned the instrument and now it was a glorious thing to behold. The music that flowed from his talented fingers to the pipes reverberated around the cavern and filtered up to the world above. Most of those who heard the haunting song crossed themselves and kissed their rosaries, praying for the lost soul that haunted the theatre. When the music stopped, Madame Giry, the stern ballet mistress, delivered his letter welcoming the new management and establishing that his salary would be paid as usual and was, in fact, due. Had he remained a while longer, he would have seen them dismiss the tales of the ghost as mere superstitious rubbish. He would learn of their disbelief later to their dismay. A tune danced from his fingers and he itched to write the notes only to discover his supply of paper was woefully short. With a sigh, he rose to grab his cloak and hat once more. It was time to venture to the world above to resupply his larder as well as purchase new inks, quills, and paper.

The shopkeeper at the music store was more dense than usual and it took him twice as long to get the items he needed. Clutching the package under his cloak, Erik continued to the market in hopes of finding at least one merchant who hadn't shut down for the night. Taking the few things he'd need for tonight, he arranged to have the rest crated for pickup the following morning with an extra bonus if the merchant would be available shortly before dawn. Grumbling softly as he entered through the Rue Scribe gate, he was almost to the house on the lake when he heard singing. Pure and heartbreaking, the voice, though obviously untrained, was pitch-perfect.

"_Wishing you were somehow here again, wishing you were somehow near…"_

Swiftly setting his purchases in the gondola, Erik moved quietly through the tunnels in search of the voice that could only belong to the angels.

"_Wishing I could hear your voice again, knowing that I never would…" _A sob interrupted the beautiful flow of words and he could barely make out the whispered plea. "Oh, papa. Why did you have to leave me? I miss you so much."

It was no surprise to him when the song led him to the small chapel. There, kneeling before the altar, was an obviously female cloaked figure whose bent body shook occasionally with quiet sobs. Erik turned to leave the girl in peace but something in droop of her shoulders and the despair in her cries spoke to his cold heart. Her grief and loneliness was so familiar, so heart rending, that he couldn't just leave her so unhappy. There had never been anyone who had comforted Erik as a child when he was alone but maybe he could be that person to this unknown child. Calling himself every sort of fool, he decided to speak to her through the angel statue that floated above the altar. Throwing his voice so it appeared to come from the statue, Erik sang quietly.

"_Wandering child, so lost, so helpless, yearning for my guidance…"_

"Who's there?" The cloaked figure rose quickly to her feet, nearly knocking over the battered miniature of a man holding a violin. Though her cowl remained low to cover her face, he could tell she was looking around rather anxiously.

"Do not fear me, child, for who could ever harm such an angel?"

Snatching the portrait and slipping it into a hidden pocket, the girl slowly backed from the altar. Once she hit the wall, she reached behind her searching for the door's handle. "Angel? Oh, no monsieur, I fear you are confused. It is you who are the angel for only the heavens could create a voice so lovely." Her hands gripped the handle tightly, ready to flee at a moment's notice from her unseen visitor.

"You flatter me, child. Why do you sing in this lonely chapel so late at night? Surely so lovely an instrument should be polished to shine for the world to see!" Erik watched her carefully. He knew that if he made the slightest misstep, she would be out the door and gone forever.

"A lovely instrument is, indeed, a gift to treasure and share; however, polish costs more than bread and even so-called angels must eat, monsieur." Her quick wit endeared her to him even more. Talented and intelligent, if only he could see her face…would she be lovely as well?

"For you, my angel, I would be honored to mold your voice into an instrument that would make even the angels in heaven weep." He could see her considering his offer though her hands never released the door's handle.

"And what of payment, monsieur? There are some things even angels are unwilling to do in order to soar."

"Your voice shall be payment enough, angel." At her hesitant nod, he had to bite his knuckle to keep from shouting with joy. He would mold her voice to be a perfect instrument and she shall sing for him, only for him, though she stand on the stage in front of thousands. "What shall I call you, angel, and do I get to look upon the face of my pupil?"

"Non!" The change was instantaneous. She had begun to relax in his presence but now she tensed up once more and was ready to fly out of the chapel. "Non, monsieur, I will not remove the cloak. If you cannot teach me as I am now, then I fear I shall remain unpolished." He was slightly disappointed for he could think of only one reason why she'd keep her face a secret from him. Did she suffer the same harsh fate as he did?

"As you wish, mademoiselle. We shall meet here tomorrow night at 10:00pm for your first lesson. Do not be late."


	2. And so it begins

**Chapter Two:**

**And so it begins…**

The second day of rehearsals was pure hell on the crew. Buquet had been caught drinking between the curtains after lunch and the managers had reprimanded him for being drunk on duty. In addition to the humiliation of a public dressing down, they docked his pay for that entire day and informed him that if caught again, he'd be out on his ear without a reference. Being the spiteful man that he was, he took out his displeasure on the rest of the crew the next morning. Sneering into Chris' face, he assigned five of the boy's staunchest supporters to the fly tower knowing he could replace only one. The tormented look on the lad's face was all Buquet needed as a reward and, laughing, dismissed the crew to their positions as he wandered off to find a new hiding place in which to drink. Not wanting to make a choice and upset the other four, Chris made the offer to the group as a whole and accepted the first who came to him. After much debate, old Larry once again was the man he replaced and, with a heavy heart, the boy slowly climbed the tower once more.

Rehearsal went pretty much the same as the day before. Carlotta threw several tantrums until the managers stroked her ego enough for her to actually get some rehearsing accomplished. The ballet corps was excellent even though one or two were off step. At the loud bang from the walking stick, Chris winced and felt sorry for the girls; Madame Giry was a stickler for perfection. The biggest difference, however, was the absence of the Opera Ghost. As the orchestra played through the aria once more, the boy cringed and wished the ghost would put in an appearance if only to save that poor bassoon from being further tortured by its unworthy owner.

"Dreadful, is he not?" The soft, amused voice sounded just behind him, startling Chris so badly he nearly fell from the catwalk. The gloved hands that pulled him back from the edge were strong with long fingers that wrapped completely around the boy's upper arms. "My apologies, child, I didn't mean to startle you so."

Chris waved away his apology embarrassed to have been caught so off guard that he slipped. Glancing back down at the orchestra pit, the boy braved a look at the infamous Opera Ghost. "Please tell me you plan to rescue that poor instrument, Monsieur Le Fantôme." The man was exceedingly tall, well over six feet, and carried about him an aura that was both ominous and intimidating. If Chris hadn't felt the strength in the ghost's fingers, he'd swear the man was frail due to how very thin he looked. His black hair was slicked back from his head which brought into prominence the stark white porcelain half mask that covered the right side of his face. The ghost's eyes were what caught his attention, however; an unusual golden amber color, they reflected his every emotion from mirth to sadness to anger.

"What do you expect me to do, Monsieur Chris?" What could have passed for a grin flitted across the ghost's deformed lips at the boy's surprise. "Of course I know your name, child, this **is** my opera house."

"I never expected the resident poltergeist to waste his time with the boys in the flies, Monsieur Le Fantôme, that's all." Chris bristled at the mocking tone even as he wondered if the impertinence of his reply would prove detrimental to his health.

"You've got a bit of spirit, boy. I find I like you for some reason which is why you're not descending from the flies in the quickest way possible." Satisfied when Chris' face drained of all color, the ghost nodded towards the offensive bassoon player. "I had planned to speak to the new managers about the appalling state the orchestra is in but I fear they are even more foolish than LeFevre."

"Could you not bring your displeasure with the quality of the musicians to the conductor, Monsieur?" Dragging his eyes from the volatile yet fascinating ghost, Chris watched as Reyer attempted to organize the players after yet another of Carlotta's tantrums. "Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, it's like herding cats." He hadn't been aware he'd spoken aloud until he heard the most beautiful sound; the laughter of a ghost.

"Quite an accurate assessment, Monsieur Chris. As you say, perhaps I shall take my concerns to the conductor but only if the managers continue to prove themselves uncooperative." The flash of anger in those golden eyes unnerved the boy and he felt a momentary twinge of pity for the new management. That is, until those same eyes shifted to bore into his. The boy suddenly knew what it felt like to be a bug under a microscope. "You are an enigma, monsieur. You dress like a street beggar yet talk like a noble; appear to be the youngest and frailest of all the stage crew and yet you stand here conversing with the infamous Opera Ghost without fear."

"Why would I not speak to you, Monsieur Le Fantôme?" Chris shrugged and chose to ignore the first bit of information his towering companion pointed out. "I have yet to see you hurt anyone that didn't deserve it in some way. I don't believe I've angered you, Monsieur, therefore I am most pleased to make your acquaintance." He was proud his voice didn't waver as the man _was_ unnerving and, at the disbelieving arch of the only visible brow, decided on honesty and hoped he survived the decision. "And yet, I would be a fool, Monsieur, to deny that you are a most imposing and dangerous man. And perhaps I am foolish to trust that you will not harm me; only time will tell."

Silence fell between them then as both became lost in their thoughts. Chris returned his attention to the rehearsal and didn't notice when the masked man faded into the shadows like the ghost he pretended to be. It was many hours later when a letter, written in a distinctive red ink and sealed with a red wax death's head, fluttered onto the stage. Seeing it, the ballet rats ran shrieking and huddling close to Madame Giry who handed it to the managers. Monsieur Andre took it like it would bite him and the boy grinned. Maybe they were learning after all? Reading the letter once to himself he then read it aloud. The ghost was not as kind as in the first letter; pointing out the pitiful excuse for a first bassoon as well as some of the chorus members. He ended it with a reminder that his salary was overdue and he wouldn't be responsible for any accidents that might occur until it was paid.

As the night fell on the upper world, Erik once more sat at the organ while pondering his conversation with the strange boy. Chris had been at the opera house long enough to be aware of what he could do and still the boy calmly spoke to him as if he were normal, as if he were not a monster. As the notes poured from the large bronze pipes, it occurred to the ghost that he had skillfully avoided the issue of his language contrasting greatly with his garb and position. He was both annoyed and impressed with the child; it wasn't many who outsmarted the Phantom of the Opera. Perhaps it was time to pay a visit on an old friend who might know a bit more? Glancing at the clock, Erik estimated he had just enough time to ask Madame Giry about the boy before joining his new pupil in the chapel. Grabbing his violin, he entered the tunnels once more.

The ballet mistress was sitting at her desk when the mirror silently slid open to reveal the imposing presence of the opera ghost. Angelique Giry looked up and then shook her head disapprovingly. "If you're going to make an entrance, Erik, at least impress me with flash and smoke; otherwise, use the door like a normal person."

"I take it the newest gaggle of silly geese are trying even your extensive patience, Angelique?" Unaffected by her sarcasm, the ghost stepped through the mirror and draped himself elegantly over the only other chair in the room that served as both bedroom and office.

"You have no idea," she replied dryly. Rubbing her temples, she watched the man who sent most of her girls, and many of the men in the crew, scurrying for cover. "It's a bit late for a social visit, Erik."

"You wound me, Madame," the hint of a smile twitched at the corners of his lips before he proceeded to the reason for his visit. "I was hoping you might be able to find out everything about one of the stage crew. The only name I could discover is Chris." He ignored her surprise and described the boy thoroughly, including the dichotomy between his clothing and method of speech. Once she'd assured him she'd discover what she could, he rose and slipped back through the mirror leaving the ballet mistress to wonder what he wanted with a boy who worked the flies.

As Erik silently made his way through the hidden passageways towards the chapel, he knew Madame Giry would grill him as to why he wanted information on the boy. He considered asking her to leave the information in Box Five as she did his salary but knew that only postponed her questions and would earn him a tongue lashing as well. He cringed slightly at the thought of being on the receiving end of her ire and wondered how her little rats survived her training to become graceful ballerinas. Chuckling softly to himself, he also wondered what they would think if they knew she managed to intimidate even the infamous Opera Ghost. Arriving at the chapel with a mere fifteen minutes to spare, he was surprised to see his pupil already waiting. Impatiently, if he had to make a guess.

"Patience is a virtue, angel." He couldn't help but goad the girl lightly. Like the boy, this was another puzzle he was determined to decipher.

"So it is, Monsieur. Shall we begin?" The cheeky little chit!

"We will start with the scales." Placing his violin beneath his chin, Erik played the short lead then waited for her to join him. When she missed her cue, he frowned, annoyed. "Did you wish to learn or not, Mademoiselle? I am a busy man." The words came out harsher than he'd intended but he shrugged.

"Forgive me," the child sounded like she had started crying once more and he wondered what set her off this time. "If you start again, I'll not miss my cue." Standing straight, the girl who was once more fully concealed by the cloak and hood joined the music on cue and they ran through the scales with only minor adjustments.

"You will need to work on breath control if you hope to hold a note for more than a few seconds. Hold your head up higher as well; it will help your projection unless you plan to sing only to the floor. I have an idea of your range and will bring music for you tomorrow. You can read sheet music, yes?" At her nod, he continued. "For this week, we'll work strictly on your scales to improve range and breathing. Next week, we'll move to the music I'll bring you so I'll want you to have it memorized by then. Any questions?"

"Why are you doing this, Monsieur?" Her question was nearly inaudible. "If I am unwilling to show my face or reveal my name to you, a disembodied voice, what makes you think I have any desire to be on a stage?"

"The stage means less to me than seeing your voice reach its full potential. Not every artist hangs his paintings in a gallery but that makes him no less dedicated to his art. I ask only that you show me that same dedication." Erik placed the violin in its case as he spoke. Hesitating only slightly, he posed a question of his own. "Would you prefer a different instrument to accompany you, Mademoiselle? The violin seemed to upset you."

"It's fine." The words were flat, emotionless. "Au revoir, Monsieur, jusqu'à demain."

He stared in confusion as she quickly left the chapel with what suspiciously sounded like another sob. Waiting a few minutes to ensure it remained empty, Erik eased open the grate and stepped into the empty room. The faint scent of roses hung in the air and he felt they suited his unusual pupil, prickly with the potential for beauty. As he turned to leave, the small miniature on the altar caught his eye. Reaching for it, Erik remembered her kneeling before this very painting the night before while crying for her papa. He studied the picture and instantly understood her earlier distress. The man was seated on a small stool wearing evening clothes; beneath his chin he held a violin as he played. Etched into the frame were the words 'Gustav Daaé'.


	3. Lunch & Lessons

**Chapter Three:**

**Lunch & Lessons**

The blocking for Act One had improved by the end of the week to the point where management approved the introduction of basic backdrops and sets. Though Chris was busy up in the flies raising and lowering the backdrops, he was greatly concerned for his friend. He'd replaced Larry yet again but was worried it was more detrimental to the old man's health than not. Buquet had placed the boy on one of the lines for the curtains, a job normally reserved for the strongest of the crew. The main curtains were made from more than 300 yards of heavy red velvet and were difficult to raise and lower gracefully even with the advanced pulley system used by the Palais Garnier. A small boy like Chris would be unable to apply enough weight on the ropes to move the large curtain; whereas the elderly Larry would most likely injure himself trying to maintain control. It was distressing that, regardless of where he worked, Larry ran the risk of being injured or fired. Knowing how pleased Buquet would be with either outcome, the boy hoped he'd chosen the correct path. Catching the malicious grin of the Chief of the Flies, Chris shook his head at such petty cruelty. The promising little ballet rat Larry had saved from the man's perverse lusts had given up her dreams of the stage, unable to sleep due to recurring nightmares of her attack and near rape. Having succeeded in destroying the future of the young girl, the drunkard was well on his way to doing the same to the elderly stage hand.

When the cast broke for lunch, Chris remained high up in the flies. He wouldn't be able to descend quickly enough to grab his lunch, eat, and leave the kitchens before Buquet entered with his cronies and didn't want to risk running into the spiteful man. Thankfully, he'd planned ahead. Reaching into a small bag he'd laid aside during rehearsal, the boy pulled out some cheese, bread, and a small flask of water. It wasn't as filling as the hearty stew from the kitchen but he considered it worth it not to have to deal with Buquet. Sourly, he wondered why the management old and new retained the man. The slightest breeze pulled him from his thoughts and alerted him that he was no longer alone on the catwalk. Without looking up from his meager fare, the boy called a greeting to the Opera Ghost. He was rewarded with an obvious pause before his greeting was returned. Chris grinned in triumph at surprising the Phantom.

"Why do you not eat with the crew, Monsieur Chris?"

"I'd rather run barefoot through a field of broken glass, Monsieur Le Fantôme." The boy retorted dryly before he could truly consider to whom he spoke. Flushing slightly, he added in a more congenial tone, "My apologies, Monsieur, I shouldn't take my ill temper out on you. I simply have no wish to be in Buquet's presence any more than is necessary."

When the silence dragged on, Chris risked a glance behind him to learn he was alone in the flies once more. Shrugging, he supposed his petty problems were uninteresting even to a recluse like the Opera Ghost. He was, however, disappointed at missing a chance to speak to the fascinating gentleman. Their short conversations were quickly becoming one of the few highlights of his miserable days at the opera house. Finishing up his lunch, he checked the large clock and was amazed to find he still had nearly an hour before the cast would return. He was about to climb down to find Larry when the forbidding figure of the ghost reappeared. Chris stopped with a startled squeak which he desperately tried to cover with a cough.

"How do you _do_ that?"

"Trade secret, Monsieur." The ghost's lips twitched into a hint of a smile. From under his cloak, he withdrew a bowl of stew and handed it over to the boy who instinctively took it. When Chris looked up, he'd faded away once more.

"Merci, Monsieur Le Fantôme." The boy spoke softly hoping the ghost would hear him. As he sat to eat, he pondered his strange friendship with the Opera Ghost. He'd not heard of the man interacting with anyone but the managers and Madame Giry, who delivered his salary. Did the ghost even have a name and would he reveal it if he did? And how did he get around the opera house unseen? Turning, Chris stared at the wall near where the ghost had appeared. He wasn't even sure what he was looking for but maybe he could find a hint for one of the ghost's many secrets. Approaching the wall cautiously, the boy ran his fingers all along the surface hoping to feel a crack or uneven panel; anything to lend evidence to a doorway. He sighed in disappointment at finding nothing though he realized that if it was that easy, surely it would have been found by now by others more skilled than he. Still, he brooded with his back against the wall as he finished his lunch.

He left the bowl near the last place he'd seen the Phantom and returned to his work after lunch was over. The opera was slowly coming together and, barring another fit by their leading soprano, would be ready by opening night. He didn't see the ghost for the rest of the day, a fact that upset him more than he cared to admit. Chris left the bowl on the catwalk with a note explaining why he didn't return it to the kitchen himself. He could think of no explanation to give the kitchen workers of how the bowl had come into his possession other than the truth and that was the last thing he was willing to say. Scrambling quickly down the ropes and ladders at the end of the day, the boy left the opera house in a decided morose mood and disappeared into the streets of Paris.

** xxxx**

Down in the bowels of the Palais Garnier, a lone figure shuffled through a stack of music looking the perfect song to test his pupil's vocal range. Though a week had passed, he had yet to provide the girl with a song as they were still working on the very basics of posture and breathing. An aria from the little known opera, _Hannibal_, jumped out at him. Reading over it with a critical eye, Erik found the song to be at the very top of his angel's range. That would do perfectly as it would give the girl something to work towards. Putting the sheet into the violin case, a single perfect blood-red rose caught his eye and he hesitated. He'd bought it on a whim when he fetched his weekly supply of food he'd ordered thinking he'd give it to the girl as a reward to progressing beyond scales. Picking it up carefully, he frowned at the sharp thorns that ran up the stem. He took the flower into the kitchen to find a knife and trim away the thorns. Looking it over in dismay, he realized it was now quite bare. Retreating into his room, Erik clipped a small strip of the black ribbon he used on some of his masks and tied it around the stem. Simple. Elegant. He felt it made a nice contrast. Sliding the rose into a pocket hidden inside his cloak, he picked up the violin case and began the trek to the chapel.

He was pleased to be the first to arrive as this way he could remain hidden from his angel. The child had shown him more backbone than he'd expected from such a tiny thing but that didn't mean he wanted to terrify her by showing his hideous face, masked or not. No, best to stay hidden. Slipping through the grate, he placed first the sheet of music and then the rose on the altar near the portrait miniature. He'd barely returned to the comforting shadows of the passageway when the door opened. Once more covered in a large cloak with hood, his angel entered the chapel and stared at the rose and music for a long time before picking up them both. Was he imagining the tender way she handled the flower? Bah, of course it was his imagination! He'd known the girl for all of a week. He watched her look over the music and wondered what was going through her mind. As covered as she was, Erik had no way of knowing if she liked the music, hated it, or felt totally indifferent to it.

"Bonjour, Mon Ange." His voice trickled from the angel statue like warm honey and he could see the girl relax slightly. "I hope the music meets your approval?"

"Oui, Monsieur," she hesitated slightly before adding in a softer voice, "as does the beautiful flower."

"I'm glad you are pleased. Shall we being our warm ups with the scales?" The girl stood obediently and turned slightly away from the altar. She'd hoped to keep her face hidden as she assumed the proper stance but unknowingly turned more completely towards him. Erik frowned as the candles cast too many shadows for him to see her face. Perhaps next time he'd adjust the lighting before she arrived?

The rest of the night was uneventful. His pupil was progressing nicely with her breathing since their first meeting as she was able to hold her notes much longer than before. He told her to adjust her posture a bit more and it took longer to explain than he would have liked. Damn this infernal grate! Hearing his irritation in the barely audible grumbling, the girl crossed her arms over her chest and waited for his muttering to cease.

"Are you quite finished, Monsieur?" Her tone was more snappish than she would have liked but she felt he wasted time with such trivialities. What did it matter such insignificant details?

"Yes, Mademoiselle. It appears in one short week you've managed to learn all I can teach you. Since my services are no longer required, I suppose we shall not need to meet again." His glorious voice dripped sarcasm as potent as an asp's poison and the girl had the grace to hang her head in shame.

"Forgive me, Maestro. As you are well aware, I've had no formal training so see little point in what appears to be such a minor detail."

"Child," Erik took a steadying breath, silently repeating the mantra of "patience" over and over to himself. "Everything, be it a building, a composition, an opera, or a voice, must have a solid foundation. One so secure that not even the strongest wind could topple it. Breathing, posture, scales…all of these are the very foundation of a well-trained voice. To skip these simple steps would be like trying to run a race without ever learning to walk first."

"I understand, Maestro. Forgive me my ignorance." He could tell she did understand and was duly chastised. The girl's ability to admit to her mistake endeared her greatly to her teacher for many, himself included, were usually far too proud to admit such a thing.

"Of course, child. I shall endeavour to explain it better as well." Erik was feeling charitable, therefore, and attempted to explain the stance once more. After only a few more corrections, she was finally in the proper stance. He advised her to remember it well as he didn't want to have to go through this every lesson.

And so, back in harmony once more, they continued with the lesson. The girl retained the correct posture for the rest of the night and she could tell the difference already. Sensing her understanding, Erik gave praise when it was due. And, though they primarily worked on simple scales, he could tell that hers would be an incredible instrument in time. She still had many lessons to go before she could reach her full potential, of course, but reach it she would. Eager as he was to bathe in the purity of her voice, Erik called their lesson completed after an hour. He knew better than to push her voice too fast else he risked ruining it altogether. With final thanks for the flower, his mysterious pupil slipped from the chapel and left him alone once more.

**A/N:** Thank you to my kind reviewers and to all those who've sneaked in to read and left as quietly as our favorite Opera Ghost.


	4. Secrets Hidden, Secrets Revealed

**Chapter Four:**

**Secrets Hidden, Secrets Revealed**

A month had passed since his first meeting with the Opera Ghost. A small smile curled at the corner of the boy's lips at the thought. It wasn't too long ago that he'd thought if he ever managed to meet the ghost, he'd not live to tell the tale. Now he could honestly look back on the past month with fondness. There was certainly no lack of menace and danger in the man and yet, for some strange reason, Chris felt safer with him than he did anyone else. He couldn't stop the small chuckle that escaped at the thought. For the first time in over two years, the boy had found safety and it was in a man pretending to be a ghost who kept his face covered and his name a mystery. Ah, life's little ironies. He wondered idly whether or not the ghost would miss him when he left? Doubtful, but it was nice to think so.

Pulling the last of the backdrops into place, he skillfully secured the ropes holding it high above the stage. Chris never stayed in one place for long and he'd been at the Palais Garnier far longer than was wise already. Usually, he stayed no more than six months at any one place of employment before moving on. It was safer that way for himself and anyone who became involved with him. Even Larry, the elderly stage hand the boy liked so well, had suffered from knowing him. Buquet's annoyance at someone breaking up one of his little "trysts" could be compared to a firecracker: a short fuse, a burst of anger, and then nothing. He could never forgive, however, the fact that Larry often kept the drunken stage hand's cronies from harassing Chris. This constant defiance was like sandpaper to Buquet's ego and he used every meager brain cell he hadn't killed with alcohol to come up with new and interesting ways to make them both suffer. Thankfully, Larry was retired now. The management gave him an excellent severance package that enabled the old man to move outside the crowded center of Paris and into a small cottage in the lush countryside village of Rouen. Chris missed him but it was better this way. He would have hated to leave him to face Buquet alone.

The excited murmur of the cast below him drew Chris from his unpleasant thoughts. Lying on his stomach, he looked down on the stage to see the management approach the stage with two well-dressed gentlemen. So these must be the new patrons. Monsieur Andre called for everyone's attention before launching into a rambling speech about what an honor it was to have two such well-connected gentlemen as their patrons and he stressed that they were to be given every courtesy. He introduced the two leads, who were as deferential and groveling as their overwhelming pride would allow, followed by Madame Giry and Monsieur Reyer, the conductor. Chris watched, amused, as Andre launched into a long, dramatic speech about the newest opera and how excellent the rehearsals have progressed and all the while both patrons had their attentions riveted on the scantily clad ballet corps. Knowing they'd get nothing useful from the cast after meeting the wealthy patrons, the boy was about to rise when one of the patrons spoke to La Carlotta. The blood froze in his veins and held him where he laid; he knew that voice!

Gathering enough strength to roll over on his back, Chris swiftly ran through his options. If _that man _was going to be patron of the Garnier, then he'd have to leave sooner than he'd thought. Preferably yesterday. Damn, damn, damn, he wasn't ready for this! Desperately, he tried to work out a plan of where to go but his brain seemed to have shut down. The boy briefly considered telling the ghost but dismissed that idea immediately. Too often, his unique acquaintance had stressed how very important honesty was to him. Once he'd learned the full extent of Chris' deceptions, he'd be more likely to hand the boy over himself than hide him.

"The new patrons, I presume?" The velvety smooth voice broke through his frantic thoughts, making Chris jump and removing the last of the blood from his face. Oh, just what I need!

"Oui, Monsieur Le Fantôme." He winced at the fear in his voice and prayed the ghost would attribute it to being surprised and nothing more.

"Are you unwell, Monsieur Chris? You look extremely pale." No such luck. Dammit. Only one thing he could do in a situation such as this…lie out his ass.

"Non, Monsieur, you merely startled me, that's all." The arch of that one visible eyebrow showed the ghost's disbelief and the tense silence stretched between them. Finally, Chris shifted and murmured quietly, "We all have our secrets we must hide from the world, Monsieur, though our masks tend to be less obvious than yours."

A low growl signaled the ghost's displeasure at the boy's words reminding him how dangerous this man could be. When he looked up, he was caught by the fury and hurt in the molten amber eyes. His mind screamed at him to run but, like any prey foolish enough to be caught in the predator's gaze, his legs refused to obey. Swallowing audibly, Chris wondered if he was going to die up here on the fly tower by the man he considered his friend.

"I have killed men for less, _boy_." The ghost ground out through clenched teeth, the words cutting across him like shards of glass. And then the gloved hand was around his throat and he was gasping for air. Chris could no longer feel the catwalk beneath his feet as he was raised to look into the ghost's eyes.

"Please…" Already the world had begun to dim as he struggled to breathe. "I'm s…sorry." Those golden eyes bored straight into Chris' soul as if looking for something. Just as everything was going black, he was thrown against the wall with a snarl. Drawing his knees up to his chest protectively, he stared wide-eyed at the intimidating man. With one misguided sentence, he'd ruined the tentative friendship they'd built over the past month. Hiding his self-recriminating tears against his legs, he now knew he would not be missed by anyone at the Garnier when he left.

** xxxx**

The angry sounds emanating from the pipe organ barely scratched the surface of Erik's rage and pain. How could that _boy_ know anything about what it's like to hide behind a mask? His features were flawless, his eyes full of innocence. By the time he was the same age as the boy, he'd already killed a man while living on the streets. It's not that he wanted the boy to know the same horrors that have marked his tormented, miserable existence, but he couldn't bear to hear such meaningless platitudes from one so ignorant. Slowly, the music soothed him like it always did and, with the calming of his turbulent emotions, came regret. Like it always did. Pushing away from the organ in disgust, Erik began pacing the music room of his underground home. Something was wrong.

As he pondered the brief conversation they'd had, one thing stood out: Chris had been scared of someone or something before he'd arrived on the catwalk. He cursed his damnable temper for hurting the child instead of finding out what was wrong. He'd been hurt that the boy wouldn't confide in him and then angry when he lied. Both left him vulnerable when Chris had touched on the one thing he hated to acknowledge, much less discuss: the mask. The dark fury that constantly fought for control of his sanity guided his hands to the boy's throat and rejoiced in his fear. The child's whispered apology to him, _to HIM_, had ripped the veil of darkness from his eyes and he was horrified at what he'd done. In his anguish, he'd tossed the boy aside like a rag doll and, like the animal he was, ran back to his lair to nurse his wounded soul. The muffled sound of Chris' tears haunted him the entire trip through the tunnels.

The chiming of the clock signaling the half-hour roused him from his self-loathing. Erik frowned fiercely at the time. Was it really so late already? He had wanted to stop by Angelique's room to see if she'd found out anything further about the young stage hand. All she'd been able to discover from the idiots managing his theatre was that the boy had given a false address for his residence, declared he was without family, and provided no last name. Someone had to know something else he'd not have been hired. He just had to find out who. Leaving that puzzle for another day, Erik rose to gather his violin case but hesitated over the rose. If the angel knew the monster that taught her, she wouldn't wish for a gift no matter how lovely. Before he could change his mind, he grabbed the flower and stuffed it almost harshly into his pocket. She would never know what taught her but at least the flowers gave her the only beauty within his grasp. Making his way to the chapel, he knew he'd not arrive before her and wondered how to give her the rose.

He arrived at the chapel just as the clock struck the hour only to find it empty. As his eyes darted around the small room, he noticed one other thing wrong. The candle in front of the painted miniature had not been lit. Had she forgotten their lesson? It was possible but she'd not gone a day without lighting the candle for the entire month he'd known her. What was going on in his opera house? Frustrated, Erik had decided to find Madame Giry when he heard the faint sound of someone crying. Setting the violin on the cold stone tunnel floor, he crept back to the grate and eased it open. Maneuvering easily in the dim light, he still nearly trod upon the cloaked figure curled up behind the altar. What on earth?

"I'm sorry, papa. I'm so sorry." The barely audible whisper filled with raw pain nearly stopped his heart. It was his angel! Running a hand through his hair, he cycled through several options before settling on the one that would have the least chance of interference. He'd have to take her to his home. Not wanting her to be scared in the dank tunnels, Erik softly sang a lullaby. His voice, like a comfortable blanket, wrapped around the child and soothed her into an exhausted sleep. Pocketing the miniature, he scooped the girl into his arms and disappeared with her back through the grate.

He looked down at the sleeping angel in his arms with worry etched upon his masked face. Something was terribly wrong; his angel was stronger than her size would allow one to believe. If she could get sassy with the Opera Ghost, surely nothing minor could have caused her so much sorrow. What had she done that she felt it necessary to apologize to her deceased father? She stirred in his arms and Erik soothed her gently with his voice, hoping to keep her asleep until they reached his home beside the lake. He hesitated at the gondola, his arms not wishing to be relieved of holding his angel close. Unfortunately, he needed both hands to pole them across the water. He carefully laid the girl in the bottom of the shallow boat and fairly flew across the lake. Erik moored the boat before taking her back into his arms. He was thankful she slept still for he worried about her reaction to his rather unique home.

It was rather difficult to open the front door with his arms full of a sleeping angel, but he managed to do so with as disturbance to her slumber. He only had one bed in his home and so he took her into his room. Laying her on the bed, he turned up the gas lights and nearly chuckled when he saw that her hair was hiding her face from him even yet. Perhaps it was a sign? Erik slipped the girl's shoes from her feet, noticing how worn they were, and set them near the bed. Was the child really that poor? Unclasping the cloak, he eased her to a sitting position so he could remove it before laying her back down. He first noticed her clothing with a sense of dawning horror. Ripped in places, it hung on her small frame as if it'd been hastily thrown on. With her tears and pleas in the chapel earlier, Erik's mind conjured up every horrible situation imaginable that might result in her clothing being in such a state. Dear God, no, don't let it be true! As his eyes continued to assess her injuries, he distantly noticed that her hair was once wrapped in a single braid down her back. Somehow, the ribbon had come loose and it had escaped the braid's restrictive hold. The loose tendrils of hair were long, curly, and a deep brunette with streaks of auburn; it shone with reflected light from the lamps. Though it no longer concealed her face, his attention had been caught elsewhere. Erik tilted her head back slightly and felt a shudder run through his entire body. Reaching out a shaking hand, his fingers covered the marks on her neck perfectly. Finally raising his eyes to her face, his suspicions were confirmed; the boy, Chris, and his angel were the same person.

**A/N:** Ok, not much of a revelation, but at he's finally figured it out :D Review if you'd like and I'll like you back!


	5. Introductions

**Chapter Five:**

**Introductions**

Was there ever a more wretched monster than he? Erik continued to stare at the marks on the girl's neck, the marks he'd given her just that morning, their purplish-blue an angry contrast to her creamy skin. Good God, it was a miracle she'd returned to the chapel at all after what he'd done. Kneeling by the bed, he couldn't stop the tears that rolled down his cheeks. It was bad enough he'd hurt the only person who'd ever looked him in the eye and still showed him kindness; to know that, in doing so, he'd hurt his angel as well was unforgiveable. He'd been ready to kill whoever had hurt her and yet he'd done far worse. Chris had trusted him; _she'd trusted him_. And he'd repaid her by almost killing her. _But she didn't trust you_, whispered an evil little voice in the back of his mind. _She pretended to be a boy, hiding her true identity beneath a cap and trousers and a concealing cloak._ He'd known the child had been hiding something though. It was evident in the way she spoke that was so at odds with the way she dressed. And then there was her fear this morning…

Though he couldn't stop the silent tears that trekked steadily down his hideous face, he did rise to check for further injuries. A large bruise was forming on the right side of her face that would swell her eye shut for a day or two. She had blood under her short nails but he didn't think it was hers. Bravo, mon ange, for fighting back at least. He hesitated to check anywhere her clothing covered for fear she'd awaken and think him taking advantage of her in her weakened state. Since he saw no blood on her clothing to indicate an injury that needed treatment immediately, he'd wait until she was conscious. He was thankful to find no other injuries on his initial assessment. Before he left her side, he placed a crimson blanket over the child and stoked the fire. It got cold in his underground home.

With his tears finally spent, he set about preparing his home for his wounded angel. Perhaps if he gathered everything now while she was still sleeping, she'd not have to be subjected to his monstrous presence unless she wished to speak to him. Moving with preternatural silence and grace, Erik picked out the smallest robe he could find along with a shirt that sported a higher collar than his others. Since he had nothing that would fit his angel, he thought she could use the shirt as a nightgown until he purchased her something to wear. In the bathroom, he placed fresh, neatly folded towels on the stand by the large tub along with a bottle of bubble bath he'd bought on a whim. He fretted over not having a brush for her hair and added that to the mental list of things to purchase once he could venture out. Quietly leaving the room, Erik entered the kitchen and put a kettle on for tea. On a large platter, he placed a cup and saucer, bowl of sugar, pitcher of cream, along with some slices of cheese, bread, and fruit. While the water heated on the stove, he wrote her a note explaining where she was and with whom and reassuring her that he'd not inflict his presence upon her unless she required him. He read over the note a second time and, satisfied, placed it on the tray along with the freshly brewed tea. She was still sleeping when he placed the tray by the bed. With one last look filled with regret and worry, Erik slipped out the door and closed it behind him.

* * *

As consciousness slowly returned, the girl could hear the beautiful sounds of a piano being played by an expert hand and wondered where she was. Even without opening her eyes, she knew she was no longer in the chapel. She was lying upon a luxurious bed with what felt like satin sheets and covered by a blanket of velvet, a fire crackled in a nearby fireplace, and she could distinctly smell the mouthwatering aroma of fresh tea. Opening her eyes, she gazed around the room with wonder. Decorated in crimson and black, the colors combined with the flickering of the dim gaslights should have draped the room in eerie shadows; instead, it lent it an otherworldly air she found most appealing. Fascinated, she took in the sparse but elegant furniture, the exceedingly large armoire, and a door which she assumed led to a bathroom. When she saw the robe and linen shirt, she frowned and wondered if her kidnappers thought she was crazy enough to bathe while in captivity. There was no way she was putting herself in such a vulnerable position until she knew where she was and why she was here. Finally, neither her eyes nor her hunger could resist the tea tray any longer. Her stomach gave a most indelicate rumble even though she was wary of eating or drinking at an unknown location. If _he_ had captured her, there could very well be poison waiting for her in the tempting snack. Sitting up, she noticed a vaguely familiar letter amongst the dishes.

She read through the letter quickly and was immediately relieved to know she was at the home of a friend. After a second, more thorough perusal of the letter, she felt her heart drop. Perhaps a friend no longer. He wanted nothing to do with her now that he knew the extent of her deception. He enjoyed conversing with her when she was Chris the stage hand high in the flies and eagerly trained her voice when she was the mysterious angel. Now that he knew she was both and neither, he wouldn't even be in the same room as her unless she needed something. Dejected, she ate and drank mechanically knowing she would need her strength when she had to leave. Sliding to the end of the bed, she gazed longingly at the bath. Now that she knew with whom she was staying, she longed for a decent bath but turned away to slip on her shoes and cloak. What would be the use when she would just be right back on the streets again? She swayed only slightly when she rose and held onto the nightstand until the room ceased its spinning. Once she felt more stable on her feet, she moved to the door and went in search of her host.

The lovely music guided her to a partially closed door and she hesitated. He was inside, she knew it, but what should she tell him? She doubted he would be interested in her problems, especially now, and she didn't want to drag him into that mess anyway. No, it was for the best that she simply ask him to allow her to leave and assure him that she'd not bother him again. She owed him that much at least. With a sad sigh, she slipped into the music room as quietly as she could and stood just inside the doorway. He must not have heard her as he continued to play, his body swaying gently with the melody. While watching him, she thought she'd never seen anyone move so gracefully nor play so beautifully. The song slowly came to an end and she found herself lost in his warm golden eyes.

"How are you feeling, mon ange?" His voice was quiet and sent a shiver down her spine at its beauty. Once more, she was struck by the deep sadness that seemed to envelop him like a shroud. Shamed by the endearment, she dropped her eyes to the floor and pulled the cloak tighter around her.

"I am no angel, Monsieur Le Fantôme, as you are now well aware. My name is Christine and I am so very sorry for lying to you." She couldn't stop the tears that spilled from her eyes. "I didn't know you at first, didn't know I could trust you. Once I did…well, by then I'd been taking lessons from you for several weeks. I already knew how much you despised lies and was caught in a web of my own making. I could neither tell you nor could I let you find out but it was killing me to perpetuate the lie. And then today…" Christine took a deep breath and risked a glance at his face. She returned her gaze back to the floor at the total lack of any emotion on his face. "Today, I disgusted you by violating your privacy and I know you can never forgive me for that. But I just…" She stopped when the piano bench crashed to the floor as he rose suddenly.

"Forgive you? Forgive _you_? I nearly killed you, you ridiculous child!" His voice echoed in the small room making Christine cringe against the wall.

"I know but if I hadn't upset you so... Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, if I could take it back, I would in an instant." So intent was she on avoiding his eyes that she never saw him approach until he had his hands wrapped around her upper arms and gave her a shake.

"Dammit, girl, shut up and listen! What you said, what you did, all of it means nothing beside the fact that the bruises on your neck came from my hand. When I saw you in the chapel, heard you crying and begging forgiveness from your father, I wanted to kill whoever had caused you such pain. And then to discover that it was me? No, child, there is no need to ask forgiveness from a monster."

Releasing her, his shoulders drooped as he turned away and more than ever, Christine felt his anguish was a palpable thing in the room. She knew he would walk out of her life and never speak to her again. Not for the wrongs she'd committed against him, but for the wrongs he'd committed against her. She couldn't bear it and lay a restraining hand on his arm before he could walk away from her.

"Please, monsieur, you are no monster. Perhaps…perhaps we could start again?" There was such hope in her voice that she didn't even try to hide but there was fear as well. Fear that he would reject her plea. "Allow me to introduce myself, monsieur. My name is Christine Elizabeth Daaé."

Slowly turning in amazement, he stared at the lovely girl before him and wondered what he'd ever done in his miserable life to earn him time to bask in the presence of such an angel. Close to weeping again, he took her tiny hand in his and elegantly bowed low. "I am Erik Devereaux, Mademoiselle Daaé; at times a vocal instructor, at others an Opera Ghost, but ever and always honored to make your acquaintance."

**A/N:** I know she seems to forgive him very easily for nearly killing her but bear with me, she does have a reason for this. :)


	6. Fallen Angel

**Chapter Six:**

**Fallen Angel**

"So that's your name…" Christine really wasn't aware that she'd spoken her thoughts aloud. She also wasn't conscious that he still had possession of her hand until he raised it to his lips to press the lightest of kisses upon it.

"So it is," Erik chuckled softly at her look of surprise and released her hand. Without knowing it, both felt the absence of the other's warmth keenly. "Would you like a bath now, Mademoiselle Daaé? I have left you something to wear for now but in the morning will fetch you some decent clothing."

"Please, Monsieur, don't go to the trouble and expense. I can wash and mend what I have on and that will be fine." The thought of new clothing, perhaps even an actual dress, was heavenly but what would she do with it once she left? And how would she ever repay him?

"Absolutely not!" The horror on Erik's face would be comical if the situation wasn't so dire. "I fully intend to burn that…that _thing_ once you have something fit to wear." He held up a hand to stop her from interrupting. "No arguments, mon ange. I won't have you in my house parading around in rags that aren't even fit for the dust bin. While I don't have anything suitable tonight due to the lateness of the hour, it won't take long to pick up a few things in the morning."

"Monsieur Devereaux, you seem to be laboring under the misconception that I will be staying here beyond this night. That, I'm afraid, is something I cannot do. I must leave before sunrise in the morning in order to put as much distance as I can between the Palais Garnier and myself before nightfall. I had hoped to stay at this opera house longer but that has become impossible. So, while I thank you for the very kind offer, I must regretfully decline." Christine was studying her shoes intently as she spoke since she didn't really want to leave at all. It'd been so long since she'd thought of anyone as a friend and it pained her to have to leave the Opera Ghost behind.

"Well, my dear, I appreciate your willingness to spend even one night in the monster's lair." The anger and sarcasm that simmered beneath the polite words made her wince. She was afraid he'd be upset. "I suppose you'll be sending the gendarmes to capture the creature that haunts the opera house while on your way out?"

"What?" Christine's head snapped up quickly and she stared at him in shock. "Erik…Monsieur Devereaux…I would never do a thing like that to you! Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, how many times must I tell you that you're not a monster or a creature! You are my _friend_ and that's why I have to go." Tears gathered in her eyes at the disbelief in his. "I can't stay because if he finds me, it won't matter to him what you know or do not know. He would hurt you, even kill you, if he found out that you helped me. Please, I can't be responsible for that; I can't." Turning away to hide her tears, she added in a watery voice. "Perhaps it would be best if I just go now."

"Who, Christine?" Erik placed his hands on her shoulders to prevent her from leaving the room. "Who is after you?"

Wrapping her arms around herself, she shook her head. She just couldn't tell him. If she told him who, he'd want to know why. If she told him why…she couldn't bear to watch the disgust fill his unusual golden eyes. When he turned her to face him, she struggled but he was far stronger than her. A graceful, leather-clad finger nudged her chin, gently forcing her to look at him. His anger had melted away to be replaced by concern which only grew upon seeing the steady flow of tears on her cheeks. "My dear," he murmured softly, "let me help you."

"I can't," Christine whispered, closing her eyes so he wouldn't see the shame in her eyes. "I've…I've done something terrible, Monsieur, and you'll hate me for it. God knows I do. And I'd prefer that you hated me for leaving than risk your life when they find me."

xxxx

Erik stared down at the girl and wondered what she had done that she considered so terrible. He'd seen the shame and self-loathing that she'd tried so hard to conceal and that had only made him want to help her more. He pulled her into his embrace and stroked her hair. "Trust me, Christine. I have committed more than my share of sins. There is nothing that you could say or do which would make me turn my back on you. Tell me, mon ange, and I will do everything within my power to help you."

He could feel the sobs that wracked her body even though she kept her hands fisted between them. Growing more and more concerned, Erik lifted his angel into his arms and carried her to the sofa. She struggled weakly when he settled her on his lap and gently pressed her head against his shoulder. As his fingers removed her hair from the braid, he whispered reassurances in her ear. This child was the first person besides Angelique to show him any hint of kindness. She'd called him her friend! She even cared enough to try to protect him. For the first time in his long and hideous life he felt more like a man than a monster and he'd be damned if he was letting her face this alone. Whatever "this" was. As her sobs dissolved into shaky hiccups and then into shuddering breaths, Erik realized his angel had fallen asleep once more. Shifting carefully, he lay back against the arm of the sofa and laid her beside him in his protective embrace. Soothed by her steady breathing and the feel of her silk-like hair beneath his fingers, he too drifted off to sleep.

The bell chiming the one o'clock hour pulled Erik from blissful slumber. His dreams for once had not been full of nightmares but of the angel he still held in his arms. He gently brushed the hair from her face and frowned at the bruise that marred her perfect features. The anger that surged through him as he thought of the person who'd done this to his angel surprised even Erik with its intensity. If the man was standing before him right now, he might very well tear him limb from limb and feel not one iota of regret for doing so. She shifted in her sleep and called for her papa in such a broken, anguished voice that it brought tears to his amber eyes. What secrets lay in her past to bring torment even into her dreams?

As if she knew she was being watched, Christine began to stir. Erik, relishing the feel of the young woman in his arms, continued to stroke her hair until her eyes popped open and she fought against his restraining arm. Surprised, he released her and watched as she cowered on the far end of the sofa drawn up into a protective ball. Her eyes were wild and unseeing; she was lost in that place between waking and sleeping and her nightmares had merged with reality. She had felt his arms around her but it was not Erik she was seeing in her mind. It was _him_. Bewildered and concerned, he approached the terrified girl slowly, his heart aching when she cringed away from him in fear. Over and over she muttered softly her apologies to her papa and pleas for someone to stop. Stop what, Erik didn't know, but feared he could guess. He ached to touch her but knew it wasn't wise and so he talked to her softly until the fog of sleep and nightmares dissipated to wakefulness.

"I'm sorry, Monsieur," her voice, angelic even in her misery, was so soft even his excellent hearing had difficulty making out the words. She remained in her protective shell, face hidden by her knees and long, curly hair but he could hear her sadness.

"You, mon ange, have no reason to apologize to me and, I suspect, little reason to apologize to anyone." Christine shook her head in denial at his words and Erik felt his heart break all over again. He inched closer wanting only to comfort his angel. "Trust me, Christine." As soon as his fingertips brushed across her silky curls, she slid from the sofa and buried her face in his chest. Her arms held him tightly and he understood that she didn't want him to look at her. How many times had he wanted to do the same as a child?

"If I tell you some of what happened will you promise not to question me about the rest? Please?"

"Of course, mon ange." Erik kept his voice soft and soothing, not revealing his impatience to know what was wrong so he could start helping her. He slowly eased his arms around her, giving her plenty of time to back away if she wished, but she only burrowed further against his chest. If the circumstances had been anything other than what they were, he could have cheerfully died a contented man. And then his angel began to weave her tale…

**Two Years Earlier**

_Christine had just turned sixteen when she and Gustav arrived in the port town of Le Havre. Her father's failing health had forced them to leave England where they'd been staying for the past year and head to Paris where he had friends. He wanted to ensure that she was taken care of after he was gone. The pair paid for their travels through performances on street corners and county fairs as well as at the inns and taverns such as the one they were staying in tonight. Earlier, Gustav and Christine had performed in exchange for room and board at a local inn and, though they would be relegated to the attic, it was warm and dry so they didn't complain. They performed well and the guests rewarded them. The tips had been enough to purchase tickets on the train to Paris but it wasn't due to depart until early the next night. After a few inquiries, Gustav grabbed his violin while Christine hummed softly to warm up her throat before venturing into town to earn a few extra francs at the fair._

_ Their performances were met with modest success. With so much going on, few took the time to throw a coin into the violin case for the two. By the time night was approaching, they barely had enough to purchase meals for the two of them on the train. Christine had been disappointed but Gustav shrugged it off as one of the drawbacks to traveling as they did. On the way back to the inn, the elderly man stopped to lean against a lamp post and catch his breath. Unbeknownst to his young daughter, Gustav had been experiencing chest pains for the last hour and was now struggling to breathe. When the violin case fell from his numb fingers to the cobblestone street, Christine immediately ran to his side. Tears filled his eyes at the thought that he'd be leaving his precious angel alone in a strange town but he knew he would not live to see even their hotel room again, much less Paris. With his remaining strength, he made his daughter promise to seek out her mother's old friend, Angelique Morceau, when she arrived; she'd been a ballerina at the Garnier and Celeste's maid of honor. Her tearful promise settled his worried mind and he gave the faintest of smiles; his angel would be well. He pushed the violin into her hands as he slid down the post, his vision narrowing as his time grew ever shorter. Nearly hysterical, she never heard the two men who appeared behind her until they laughed drunkenly._

_ "Lookie here, Beauvais, Lady Luck hasn't totally shunned us. She has sent us a gift to play with." His words were slurred heavily and Christine wondered how he remained on his feet with so much alcohol flooding his system. Even drunk there was an aura of cruel menace around him that penetrated her grief and __made her shiver__.  
_

_ His friend, Beauvais, was equally inebriated and he nearly fell on top of her when he reached for her arm. "Come, my dear. I have a cold bed that needs to be warmed." The girl hugged the violin case close and cringed away from them, praying that someone would come help her. When he reached for her again, she shook her head and begged him to leave her be. She had to get help for her father. At this, they both laughed._

_ "Nice story, little one," her unnamed tormentor sneered, "but you and I both know he's just some drunken idiot who you're trying to rob. If you come quietly, we won't send the gendarmes after you. Hell, you can even keep the money and whatever is in that hideous case if you're nice enough to us." There was something in this man's manner that truly terrified the young singer and she backed further away, keeping the violin case in front of her like a shield._

_ "No, please." Christine's eyes darted up and down the alley looking for anything or anyone that could help her. "He's ill, messieurs, and I need to get him back to the inn so he can rest."_

_ "Oh, you'll go back to the inn, little one," the sheer menace in his voice dripped with terrible meaning as he reached for her. Unlike his drunken friend, he didn't miss and his fingers wrapped cruelly around her arm to drag her towards the Hound and Hare. She begged and cried and fought the entire way until he grew tired of her noise and slapped her hard. Having never been struck before in her life, Christine grew quiet in her fear. Before she knew it, they were in a bedroom and the unnamed man was removing his clothing. "Don't worry, dear, you'll be well-paid for your efforts. Now undress." Terrified, she shook her head. This could not be happening. "As you wish. Beauvais?" In her fear of this man, she'd forgotten all about his friend. She was reminded when his hands gripped her upper arms tight while the other drew a knife and sliced open her dress._

_ Humiliation and terror fought for supremacy as her young body was exposed before his lusting eyes. He was going for the belt of his trousers as Beauvais started peeling her ruined dress from her shoulders. As if suddenly breaking out of a trance, she began to fight once more, her fear lending her strength. She managed to slip from the restraining hands of one of her captors only to have the other's fist make contact with her stomach which dropped her to her knees. Gasping for breath, Christine saw the knife in Beauvais' boot. Desperate and frightened, she pulled it from its sheath and brought it down upon the man's leg. His howl of pain released some sort of damn inside her and she brought the knife down over and over until the dark, menacing man wrenched it from her fingers. At the sight of the blood on her hands and his fully nude, aroused body, she felt the room spin and then all was black._

* * *

**A/N:** Thank you all for your lovely reviews and patience with this story. It's a difficult one for me and parts of it has been kicking my butt but I refuse to let it beat me! I'm keeping the rating T for now but it may have to change at a later date. I haven't decided. :D_  
_


	7. Don Juan Discovered

**Chapter Seven:**

**Don Juan Discovered**

As Christine once more cried against his chest, Erik was struggling against the white-hot fury that blinded him to everything but the urge to kill. If Beauvais wasn't dead, he would soon wish he was, vowed the masked man. And the other…if that disgusting pile of humanity dared to touch his angel, he would take great delight in killing him slowly. There were ways to draw out a man's death for weeks, perhaps even months, if he was in good health and Erik was careful. The Opera Ghost knew of several cells beneath the Garnier that were left over from the Communard's reign of terror. The man's screams would be muffled enough by the amount of earth above them that the upper world would merely attribute them to the story of the haunted opera house. There would be supplies to purchase, naturally, as well as plans to be made. He would need to pick up bandages and a variety of drugs; he didn't want to be unprepared in case her unknown assailant proved to be weaker than he hoped.

"Erik?" The soft, scared whisper of the angel in his arms tore the black veil of murderous rage from his eyes. Gently running his fingers through her hair, he planted the lightest of kisses on the top of her head.

"Yes, mon ange?" He heart lurched at the sound of his name on her lips.

"Should I go now?" Her voice was so small and wounded and scared that he instinctively tightened his arms around her protectively.

"Never, my angel." Erik pulled back only enough to gently guide her eyes back to his. "I promised no questions and I shall keep my word until you are ready. But know this, mon ange: if I have to, I will pull the angels from the heavens and wrestle all the demons of hell until I find those that hurt you. They will know fear and pain like none other by the time the Opera Ghost sends them to their final reward." Christine shivered at the intense anger in his golden eyes and knew he would follow through on his vow and, quite possibly, enjoy it.

**xxxx**

She watched his fluid movements in the kitchen and wondered how so tall a man could also be so very graceful. She'd seen prima ballerinas with less grace than her masked friend. Christine wondered if he danced at all for his movements seemed to flow with a melody only he could hear. Underneath that lissome grace, however, was a man who was much stronger than he looked. Slim he may be, bordering on the unhealthy side of thin, but it was pure muscle. The way he moved, all sinuous grace and coiled tension, reminded her of a large cat she'd seen once at a zoo. They even had the same haunted look in their eyes. It had been clear why the caged creature was unhappy but Christine couldn't fathom the cause for her Phantom's anguish.

For the first time, she looked at Erik as solely a man and not the mysterious Opera Ghost. His wore the formal suit of an opera patron and even she could tell it was made of the very finest materials. He was so very tall and slim that it had to have been tailored specifically for his frame; nothing off the rack would ever fit him so well. Was he wealthy then? Christine had heard he commanded a large salary from the managers but thought it had been part of the story and not based in reality. It seemed she needed to rethink that. When he half turned to place the pan on the stove, she realized that, even while cooking, he wore his gloves. Were his hands scarred, she wondered? Did they resemble the face he took such pains to hide? She'd noticed distortions around the bottom edge of the mask, the unusual puffiness and curl of his upper lip as if something were tugging it up towards his hairline, and concluded that he had either sustained an injury during the war, been horribly burned, or had the grave misfortune to have been born with such a face. The part that seemed the most incongruous was not the mask, which made perfect sense to her if his face were terribly scarred or deformed, but the absolutely perfect hairline. Regardless of what had caused his face to be the way it was, his hairline near the mangled flesh should have also been affected.

"Well, mon ange, what's your verdict?" Normally Erik would have been incensed at being subjected to such intense scrutiny but she was different. He really didn't think she was aware of how long she'd been watching him.

"Verdict?" She blinked up at him in confusion. "Um, well, it has to be a wig; it's the only thing that makes any sense." Watching the emotions swirl in his amber eyes, Christine finally realized what she'd said aloud. Horrified at her lack of manners, she immediately blushed a painful red before all the blood rushed from her face to leave her uncommonly pale. "Oh, God, I'm sorry! I didn't mean…I was just…oh, why can't I just keep my mouth shut?" Giving up on her apology, she dropped her head into her hands with a groan. She felt even worse when he sat a bowl of freshly made soup before her and left the kitchen without a word. The depth of his anger was unmistakable in the harsh notes that he commanded from the large pipe organ.

Scolding herself fiercely, Christine finished the soup and cleaned her dishes before retreating to the bedroom. She hoped to give him time and space to calm down and maybe allow her to apologize again later. Angry at herself and her thoughtless tongue, she grabbed the clothing he'd left for her use and marched into the bathroom. The thoughtfulness of the preparations he'd made so hastily while she'd been asleep brought tears to her eyes and even more harsh recriminations for her rude behaviour. Settling into the tub for a good, long soak, she realized that, though the music was harsh and angry, it also carried a melody of sorrow beneath each and every note. She hadn't thought she could feel any worse for her careless remark but she'd thought wrong. Eying the filthy and torn boy's outfit, she decided she would repair it after all. He may yet regret asking her to stay.

Twenty minutes later, she was dressed in Erik's shirt and covered with the robe. Before she drained the tub, she washed her tattered boy's clothing and laid it over the side to dry. She would mend it later. Taking a deep breath to steady her nerves, Christine went in search of the Opera Ghost. They couldn't continue like this; she being so very careful not to say the wrong thing and he getting furious at the mere mention of his…peculiarities. If he wanted her to stay, and it seemed he did, they would have to come to some kind of agreement. She checked the music room first even though she'd not heard a note for the past ten minutes. Surprised to find it empty, she was about to leave when curiosity, always her downfall, drew her to the music at the piano. The notes seemed to dance along the page in red-inked chaos and yet, upon closer inspection, they formed a song unlike any she'd ever heard before. When she noticed that the song was unfinished, Christine realized that the composer was none other than Erik Devereaux, her masked host. The word _Genius_ filtered through her mind as she flipped through the rest of the music. Momentarily forgetting why she'd entered the room, she took the large stack of papers to the sofa and began reading the most amazing opera she'd ever heard of, Erik's _Don Juan Triumphant_.

**xxxx**

Once he'd heard her fill the bath, Erik had slipped up to Madame Giry's chambers to give her a list of things he needed for his guest as well as more than enough francs to cover the cost. Pacing, he told his adoptive sister everything he knew about Christine including her presence in England with her father shortly before the incident at Le Havre. Scribbling down an address, he asked if she could pay a visit to his Persian friend and have him try to discover if someone named Beauvais had been injured or killed in Le Havre two years ago. He also wanted him to find out who had buried Gustav Daaé and where so he could take his angel to visit her father's grave. Finally, he wanted to know more about the two gentlemen who'd arrived earlier that day: their names, addresses, and whether or not they were to be patrons of the opera house. Angelique looked up from her notes in surprise.

"Wait…did you say Gustav Daaé? The violinist?"

"Yes," Erik turned from the mirror he was about to leave through, "do you know something about him?"

"I do…" Angelique ran a shaking hand through her hair thoroughly upsetting the tidy bun. "His wife, Celeste, and I were the best of friends when we were both in the chorus here at the Garnier. Her voice was beyond beautiful and it wasn't long before she became the understudy for the lead soprano. Then, a Swedish violinist was invited to Paris to play a concert. After one look at Celeste, he took a job with the orchestra in the hopes of marrying her. They married within the year and moved to Gustav's home in Stockholm to deliver their first child. We lost touch and I never even knew if the child was a girl or boy." She wiped a stray tear from her cheek. "Your Christine is Gustav's child?"

Erik offered her a handkerchief, patting her shoulder gently. "She said he wanted her to contact an Angelique Morceau. Would that be your maiden name, my friend?" At her nod, he ran a hand over his face. He didn't want to lose his angel just as he'd taken her under his wing but this was her father's dying wish. "Should I bring her to you?"

"No," Angelique hadn't missed the look on her masked friend's face and, if the girl was in trouble, there was no place safer than his home on the lake. "I think she'll be safer with you. I would like to visit her soon if I may."

"Of course. Shall I fetch you tomorrow around noon? You can bring her clothing and share lunch with us." She thanked him and informed him she'd notify him as soon as she learned something. He'd opened the mirror to return to his home when she voiced the question he'd been avoiding.

"Erik, did these men…violate Christine?" His shoulders slumped and he leaned his forehead on the edge of the mirror.

"I don't know, Angelique. She didn't say and I'd promised her no questions. If they did," he raised his head and even Madame Giry felt a chill run down her spine at the unadulterated menace that lurked in his eyes, "they will beg for death by the time I am finished with them."

As he made his way down the tunnels, he wondered what he'd say to his lovely angel. If he didn't learn to control his damnable temper he'd chase her off, leaving her at the mercy of those who'd cause her harm. Taking a deep breath, he prepared to do something he'd never felt the need to do before; he was going to apologize for his anger. He entered the house quietly and knocked on Christine's door. The door, unlatched, swung open to reveal the empty room. She'd bathed and changed into the shirt and robe he'd left her though he was less than pleased that she washed the rags she'd been wearing instead of tossing them in the fire. Perhaps she was in the music room? As he got closer, he could hear the voice of an angel quietly singing a familiar song; a song no one but he should know. A song from his_ Don Juan_.

* * *

**A/N**: Thank you to all who've reviewed and placed this on your favorites lists!


	8. Aminta's Aria

**Chapter Eight:**

**Aminta's Aria**

_How did I come to this  
How did I slip and fall  
How did I throw half a lifetime away  
Without any thought at all_

_This should've been my time  
It's over, it never began  
Facing a world, for once not on my side  
I simply turned and ran_

Christine had found an aria for Aminta, sung after discovering Don Juan's true nature, and instantly fell in love. The hopeless despair felt by the young girl was something to which she could definitely relate. She, too, had tried to disappear, running from the pain of losing her father, that horrible night in the inn, the blood of a nobleman on her hands that even now she still saw every time she closed her eyes at night. Oh, yes, she felt Aminta's anguish and she let her voice spill that anguish into the silent, empty house.

_People have faith in me  
I think I once did too  
I promise whoever has a hold on our lives  
I'll see the bad times through_

_This should have been my time  
It's over, it never began  
Facing a world, for once not on my side  
I simply turned and ran_

The tears flowed unheeded down her cheeks as she thought of her father. He had such dreams for her, dreams she once shared. They were to come to Paris so she could audition for the Palais Garnier and sing on the same stage he first saw her mother. Oh how he'd talk about her impending triumph and how she'd take Paris by storm. But now…now she was running from the gendarmes, a murderer, tainted, unclean. She knew the reputation of most opera singers wasn't one of purity but her father had told her to hold out for love. She had until that night. But unlike Aminta, Christine's heart wasn't involved beyond the intense hatred she felt for her attacker. She also wasn't under the illusion that the man cared for anything other than his own selfish lusts and his love of the power he had over her.

_I try to blame it on fortune  
Some kind of twist in my fate  
But I know the truth and it haunts me  
I learned it a little too late_

_I know the truth and it mocks me  
I know the truth and it shocks me  
I learned it a little too late_

So many times she'd prayed that it had all been a horrible nightmare and that she'd wake up in some strange inn to the gentle strains of her father's violin; but it was never to be. For two years, Christine had lived as a boy running from job to job, never staying long enough for anyone to question why the 'boy' never grew up. For two years, she had convinced herself that, once she had saved enough, she'd return to Stockholm. She could work as a music instructor in the girls' finishing school there, perhaps even find a nice young man to settle down and raise a family. But she knew it was all a dream with about as much substance as fairy wings and pixie dust. The truth was that no one would want to wed someone like her, a ruined soprano with another's blood on her hands.

**xxxx **

Her voice had dropped to a whisper by the end of song and Erik's heart was breaking even as he exulted in her magnificence. It was obvious the song had stirred painful memories for her and the emotional impact on her voice was astonishing. When he'd written that particular aria, his life had been dismal and all of his bitterness and pain had poured onto the paper in notes and measures. He'd been working in a music store as a repairman, fixing instruments in exchange for room, board and unlimited access to the equipment. It was there he met Isabella, the shopkeeper's niece. She was gentle, kind, and oh so beautiful it made his heart ache. She'd made him hope for the first time in his young, miserable life that there might be someone who could see him for who he was and not what he looked like. His dreams were shattered the night he'd stayed late at the shop to use the piano to compose a song that she'd inspired. Isabella and several of her friends had entered the shop and, with the larger boys holding him down, she'd ripped off his mask in front of them all. He could still hear the girls' screams of horror and the boys' cries of monster as they beat him. He'd left the shop that night and the city the next morning but a week later the aria had been added to Don Juan. Unable to listen to her mournful cry from afar any longer, he entered the room and took a seat next to her on the sofa. He wanted nothing more than to comfort his angel but was at a loss as to what to do.

"Christine?" He couldn't help running his fingers gently through her hair as he struggled over what to say. "Mon ange, is there any way I can ease your suffering? It pains me to see you so sad."

"Oh, Erik," Christine drew in a shuddering breath as she tried to bring her tears under control, giving a small laugh tinged with self-contempt. "I'm sorry. I'm not normally so emotional. It seems all I do around you is cry or say the wrong thing and…"

Erik placed a gentle finger on her lips before turning her face to his. Smiling tenderly, he took out his handkerchief and dried her tears. "Shush, angel, it is I who must apologize for my beastly temper. I have led a solitary life with little contact with the outside world and have had far too much time to dwell on my many faults. That is no excuse for my treatment of you, however." It wasn't until a faint blush crept up her cheeks that Erik realized he was gently caressing along her jaw. Clearing his throat, he jerked his hand back with another muttered apology.

"Did…did you write this?" Christine cringed at the inane question; his name was at the top of each sheet. "It's beautiful."

"Ah, yes, I suppose I left that on the piano?" At her guilty nod, he eased the score from her hands and placed it on his lap. With a look precariously balanced between love and hatred, he traced the title that was embossed on the leather cover with the tip of one graceful finger. "_Don Juan Triumphant_. I never meant for you to see or hear any of this; I never meant for anyone to hear it. You see, Christine, there is some music that is so terrible that it consumes all those who approach it. My Don Juan is such music. He burns, you see, and yet he is not struck by fire from Heaven but from Hell and that is where I shall take it once it is complete."

"What do you mean?" Her voice was so soft even Erik's excellent hearing almost missed it.

"Nothing, child, pay me no heed." Erik rose and placed the score on the piano bench, his fingers lingering before he turned back to his angel. "I do have some good news, mon ange. Tomorrow, we will have a guest for lunch. No, no…do not be afraid; it's someone I think you'll be happy to see. You see, I've commissioned Madame Giry to purchase those things you will need while at my home and she will be bringing them tomorrow. Ah, I see you know of the unrelenting ballet mistress. What you may not be aware of, however, is that when she was a mere ballet rat her name was Angelique Morceau, your mother's best friend."

**xxxx**

Meanwhile, in a smoky, run-down tavern, two men were meeting for the first time. One was a large, rough looking character with bloodshot eyes that stared lewdly at the young waitress who brought him a shot of cheap whiskey. The other was the opposite in almost every way. Too fashionably dressed for the dingy room and his equally uncouth companion, the man's eyes scanned the room; any unlucky enough to meet them shivered at the utter lack of emotion contained within. They were convinced that, if the man hadn't been sitting at the table and breathing, they'd swear the eyes belonged to a dead man. Once the waitress had left their drinks and retreated as far as she could from the table, the man turned his dead eyes on the drunk and curled his lip faintly in disgust.

"You said you had information for me, Buquet."

"Aye, that I did. You got my money?" The cold gentleman made the stage hand's blood freeze in his veins but that didn't mean he was going to run his mouth for free. When a modest sized pouch landed on the table with a metallic thump, he secreted it away in one fluid movement, drained his whiskey, and motioned the girl over for a refill.

The gentleman had the girl leave the bottle and informed her she did not want to return to the table until he'd left. The waitress, having bested many of the rowdy characters that regularly patronized the tavern, turned so pale she looked sickly and fled the room. Satisfied, he took the bottle in a firm grip and looked pointedly at Buquet.

"Speak now or you'll find it most difficult to speak ever again." The threat was all the more terrifying in that it was delivered in the same tone of voice he'd used when ordering drinks, commenting on the weather, or making small talk at a ball.

"Your little whore…I might know where she's at." He reached for the bottle when he discovered his glass to be empty once more. The man arched one perfectly groomed eyebrow and even the stagehand's limited intelligence knew it was time to talk. "Had a fly boy up until yesterday, name of Chris. No one knows his last name but he'd become rather chummy with the Opera Ghost in the last few weeks. They had a falling out of sorts, I s'pose, as I saw marks on the boy's neck. The same marks I saw on the little songbird what's been sneaking into the chapel recently. The same songbird what lights a candle and blubbers over a picture bearing the name of one Gustav Daaé."

"Excellent." Buquet hadn't thought anything about the man could be worse than his eyes until he smiled. The second pouch of coins was placed by the bottle of whiskey and both were pushed towards the drunken stage hand. He reached for neither, nor did he take his eyes off the gentleman, until the door had closed behind him.

* * *

**A/N:** The song is "I Know the Truth" from Aida. Written for a female character, I confess to simply adoring Michael Crawford's version (but then again, I adore most anything that man sings).


	9. Tea and Jealousy

**Chapter Nine:**

**Tea and Jealousy**

The next morning, Christine lay in bed feeling fidgety and nervous about meeting her mother's dearest friend. What if Erik had told her? How on earth could she bear the humiliation? Not only did she have her shameful past, she also had nothing to wear to greet the ballet mistress besides her ratty boy's clothing or her host's shirt and robe. She buried her head beneath the pillow with a groan. She remembered Madame Giry well; that lady could scare the stripes off a tiger with a single look. From La Carlotta to the little ballet rats, there wasn't a single person in the opera house who didn't defer to the lady with the cane. And she was to have lunch with her and the Opera Ghost. Her mouth twitched and she couldn't stop the giggle that escaped as it sounded suspiciously like the beginning of a really bad joke.

"I'm pleased to see you in a good mood this morning, mon ange. Would you care to enlighten me as to what has amused you so?" Erik stood in the doorway with a breakfast tray and the faintest of smiles on his lips.

"Good morning, Erik, you didn't have to do this," Christine sat up with a faint blush and motioned to the tray.

"Well, when you didn't answer my third knock, I feared for your health." He placed the tray over her thighs and sat on the edge of the bed expectantly.

"Monsieur," she closed her eyes as she savored the crêpes he'd made, "with the way you cook, I'd have to be dead to miss a meal." She grinned as the color rose in Erik's visible cheek and couldn't resist teasing him. "Did I manage to embarrass the infamous Opera Ghost?"

"Of course not," he drew himself up haughtily to peer down to his aristocratic masked nose even as the amusement in his eyes betrayed his good humor. "It's very warm in here, that's all." Christine looked pointedly at the smoldering remnants of a fire before turning back to him with an arched brow of disbelief. "Oh very well, angel, I am unused to hearing praise for _any_ of my efforts."

She grinned in triumph. "Very prettily done, Monsieur Le Fantôme, and for that I will answer your original question. Thinking about lunch, it reminded me of how some really bad jokes begin." At his blank look, she continued with a slight roll of her eyes. "You know, a soprano, a ballet mistress, and an Opera Ghost walk into a bar…?"

Though he smiled, Christine could tell he still didn't really understand and she wondered if he'd ever been told a joke. What kind of life could he have had being so alone all the time? Impulsively, she reached for his hand and gave it a reassuring squeeze. Her heart gave an odd skip and then rushed forward as if to catch up when his smile reached his eyes and became more genuine. Confused, she released his hand quickly. As she focused her attention on the rest of her breakfast, she wondered why she suddenly felt so awkward around Erik. He was a friend, her teacher; there should be no awkwardness between them.

**xxxx**

Erik watched her return to her meal and suppressed a sigh of disappointment. Even his angel couldn't bear to touch the monster she'd befriended. Rising, he informed her that he would be in the music room should she wish to have a voice lesson before their guest arrived. He sat at the piano and let his fingers soundlessly dance across the keys. The cool sticks of ivory soothed his tumultuous thoughts enough to begin to play a soft, mournful melody. He wondered…if he managed to reign in his abominable temper and let the child ask her questions about the mask, would she remain here with him? He wouldn't let her see his face, never would he submit his angel to that nightmare, but he could try to talk about it without scaring her. Couldn't he? The tune became lighter as his mood improved interspersed with hope.

After lunch, when he escorted Angelique back to her room, he would have to pay a visit to his managers. They were being most uncooperative in regards to his salary and he needed to persuade them to rethink their current course. Erik would also get answers from them concerning their new patrons as well as who'd approved the hiring of Chris or there'd be hell to pay. For years, he'd run the opera house with little resistance, helping it flourish into the success it was today. He wasn't about to let two junk dealers destroy what he'd worked so hard to accomplish. He cursed Lefevre once more for leaving so abruptly there wasn't a chance to properly inform the new managers as to whom this theater actually belonged. He truly hoped he'd not have to make an appearance; that never went well. His music grew somber and cold.

There was a sound at the door and he looked up to see Christine standing just inside the room. Wearing his shirt and wrapped in his robe that dragged the floor, he thought she was the most beautiful thing he'd ever set eyes on. Entranced, Erik rose from the piano bench and moved to take her hand with a gentle smile. "I am honored you've chosen to join me, mademoiselle." He thought she looked adorable with the faint blush that stained her cheeks. "Would you like to sit and relax or did you wish to sing, mon ange?"

"Could we talk for a while, Erik?" She clasped her hands tightly and he wondered what had made her so nervous. Was touching him really that traumatic? The thought was beyond depressing.

"Of course," he gestured towards the sofa. "What would you like to talk about, my dear?"

"Are you sending me away?"

"What?" Erik stared at her in shock. Of all the things he had expected her to say, that wouldn't have ever occurred to him. "Whyever would I do that, mon ange? Did you wish to leave?"

"No! Oh, no, I don't want to go but…isn't that why Madame Giry is coming? To take me with her?"

"Child," he took her hands in his and was filled with joy that she suppressed her distaste for his touch, "Angelique and I have agreed that my home is the safest place for you at this time. There are few who know how to get here and fewer still who know how to reach it safely. She is a dear friend of mine and is coming merely to see the child of the girl who was her dearest friend." The relief on her face was clear and Erik yearned to touch the softness of her skin once more. After an inner struggle, he raised a hand to brush a feather-light touch along her bruised cheek. "How do you feel today, angel?"

"Oh, that. It's fine, Erik. I'm used to it by now." Christine shrugged, dismissing the nasty bruise as nothing out of the ordinary. His frown was fierce at her casual acceptance of such abuse. "The crew that works the flies is often the brunt of others' vicious need to prove themselves. That's true of any opera house."

"But it should not be true of _mine_."

"Don't get your knickers in a twist, Erik," she frowned in irritation. "Just as there are slaves, servants, commoners, nobles, and royalty, everything has a hierarchy, even stage hands at an opera house. It's all part of the natural pecking order, a food chain of sorts, and without it there'd be chaos as everyone would want to be king."

"Knickers, Christine?" He arched a brow at her with an amused smirk. "Really, angel, must you use such a phrase?" Her giggle warmed his heart for there were few who dared poke fun at the Opera Ghost. With the mood of both much improved, they remained on the sofa chatting in easy companionship until time to escort Madame Giry to the house on the lake.

**xxxx**

Angelique was half buried in her closet when Erik stepped quietly through the mirror. She didn't see him glide soundlessly over to her side. She didn't see the wicked grin that crossed his misshapen lips. She did, however, hear the single, loud clap right behind her head that caused her to shriek and stumble forward into the closet. Fixing her best ballet mistress glare on the grinning Opera Ghost, she climbed out of the closet with the final item she wished to take to Christine, a small box with a miniature key.

"And what on earth was that for, Erik?" Though she was thrilled to see her adoptive brother in a playful mood, that didn't mean she was going to let his foolishness pass without comment. "I swear, one of these days I'm going to drown you in that lake. I'll carry the lantern and since you've got energy to burn, you can carry the boxes."

"Your wish, my lady," Erik bowed low to hide his mocking grin, "is my every command." Picking up the boxes along with the basket of food, he ignored her muttered "poppycock" and stepped agilely into the dark passageway.

The trip to his home was filled with good-natured bickering and laughter. Angelique couldn't remember a time when Erik was so relaxed and cheerful and knew Christine factored greatly in his good humor. Gone was the reserved, menacing Opera Ghost; in his place was the young man she'd always known he could be. As they skirted the lake, she chuckled to see Erik increase the distance between them. "Nervous about something?"

"Not at all, Madame. I am simply eager to get out of the damp and cold." She was still chuckling as they entered his home until she caught sight of Christine standing by the fireplace rather nervously. "Lord bless me, child, you are the very image of your mother." Setting the lantern on a table, she hurried forward to envelope the girl in a motherly hug. "Let me look at you. You are so like Celeste, my dear, although you have your father's eyes."

Erik placed the packages on the bed and stalked into the kitchen to begin lunch. He set the kettle on to boil and began slicing the ham, frowning fiercely at it. He was thoroughly irritated and didn't understand why which only served to irritate him more. Their light laughter, muffled now by the bedroom door, was like sandpaper on an open wound and his irritation blossomed into anger. He could feel the darkness seeping into him and coating his vision in a red haze. A sound behind him caused him to whirl around, crouched with knife at the ready, to behold one of God's own angels in his doorway. Erik's eyes widened in amazement at the vision of loveliness before him. Christine wore a pale green confection that brightened the auburn streaks in her loose, flowing hair into a bright copper. Her pale skin shone like alabaster made all the more stunning by the faint blush that tinted her cheeks. She was beautiful, a beacon of light in his dark home. When the blush fled her cheeks and a trace of fear entered her eyes, he realized he was still crouched and ready to attack. Shaken, he turned away from the girl's shocked face and placed the knife on the counter with a trembling hand. He didn't hear her approach over the sound of his heartbeat pounding in his ears.

"Erik?" Christine's tentative touch on his sleeve seared the skin beneath the thin cloth. "Monsieur, are you alright?" The concern in her lovely voice seared his already raw nerves. Confused and angry, he pulled away from her gentle hand and stalked to the door.

"I'm sure you can finish the lunch tray; I have errands to attend to. I should be back within an hour." With that said Erik settled his cloak about his shoulders, his fedora upon his head, and left the house to prowl the dark tunnels.

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**A/N:** Poor Erik got his knickers in a twist again! XD Things do move forward a bit quicker in upcoming chapters so please bear with me. Also, I have a segment coming up that I'm undecided as to its appropriateness. If someone would be willing to get a minor spoiler from an upcoming chapter while reading the segment to see if it's too disturbing to post, please send me a message. It's not really graphic as I've read worse here, it's just...disturbing. :P Anyway, thank you for the reviews, blah blah blah, I'll stroke your ego if you stroke mine, yadda yadda yadda, and all that rot. LOL I joke, but they are appreciated :D


	10. Revelations

**Chapter Ten:**

**Revelations**

_What was_ _he thinking? She was little more than a child and an ill-used child at that!_ Erik checked his alarms and traps as he walked his dark realm, silently berating himself with every step. _He couldn't feel that way for Christine. He was a monster and she, an angel. If this was a fairy tale or even an opera, his angel would fall in love with the monster and, with a kiss, break the spell and turn him back into the handsome prince he was meant to be. But this wasn't a fairy tale and he'd never be more than just a monster. _ Not realizing it, his feet soon put him on the staircase leading to the roof. There, unseen by any but the heavens, Erik could indulge in his fantasy of living like a normal man. The sun, moon, and stars never judged him for they shined their light upon all, man and monster, equally. Perched upon the ornate statue of Apollo, the Opera Ghost watched the people of Paris scurrying along the streets like so many ants; and, even though he scorned their pointless existence and frivolous cares, he envied them as well. The simple pleasure of walking along the avenue with a lady upon his arm would never be his. It was enough to make him weep even while it stirred his hatred of the human race to dangerous levels. And it was with these turbulent thoughts swirling through his head that Erik spied one of the new patrons entering his opera house. With a most wicked grin, Erik decided it was time to introduce himself properly.

Slipping into one of the many unknown passageways that honeycomb the opera house, he hunted his prey. The nobleman spoke with the managers only briefly before heading to the stage to watch the rehearsal. Erik perched high in the flies where none other than Christine had dared to climb and waited for an opportunity to present itself. If one never did, he wasn't above creating his own. When the managers stepped onto the stage to soothe yet another of La Carlotta's tantrums, he saw his opportunity; the nobleman stood alone in a shadowy corner just off stage. _Excellent_. As silent as a ghost, the black clad masked man made his way towards the back of the stage. Using his knowledge of ventriloquism to capture the man's attention, for no gentleman would ignore a lady's cries for help, Erik waited in the darkened passage. As the nobleman wandered down the hall searching for the source of the cry, the wall seemed to grab him and swallow him up, leaving no trace of the noble patron.

Erik covered the gentleman's mouth with one gloved hand while the other tightly gripped his neck as he dragged the man down into the lower cellars. Stepping into one of the old Communard prison cells, he shoved his hapless victim against the wall and held him there with his hand around his throat. The nobleman, unnerved by the golden eyes that glowed like a wolf's in the darkness, nevertheless forced the fear from his voice as he demanded to be released. Erik's hand remained, barely allowing enough oxygen to keep the man conscious.

"Bonjour, Monsieur le patron, allow me to welcome you properly to _my _opera house. I have a few questions that demand answers. Your escape from this room, nay even your very next breath, depends upon how truthfully you answer these questions. Am I making myself clear, monsieur?"

The blond gentleman attempted to pull the hand from his throat but it was like pushing on an iron bar, immovable and unyielding. Gasping, he managed to reply in the affirmative and was rewarded by the lessening of the pressure to his neck.

"See?" Erik murmured softly though the cold menace never left his musical voice. "I can be reasonable, monsieur. Continue to cooperate and you shall be back upstairs ogling the little ballet rats with an exciting tale to tell before you know it. Your name, monsieur, as well as the name of the person who accompanied you three days ago."

"I am Raoul, Monsieur, the Vicomte de Chagny and the gentleman with me that day is Jean-Louis Gachot, the Comte de Lancival. And you are…?"

"What do you know of Gachot?" Erik ignored the boy's impertinence. "Where he lives, what he does, and with whom does he associate himself?"

"I know but little. He's a distant cousin to the last Comte, inheriting after a yachting accident claimed the lives of the former Comte's family, and arrived in Paris but three weeks ago. I assume he is living in the family château but do not know for certain. He overheard me discussing the patronage of the Palais Garnier with my brother and asked if he could accompany us the next time we paid a visit. I informed him as to when I would be meeting with the managers and he expressed an interest in joining me. We are but casual acquaintances, nothing more." Satisfied that he was telling the truth, the ghost released the nobleman but remained alert to possible danger. Now that the boy was more relaxed…

**"Raoul."** Erik's golden eyes captured the Vicomte's crystal blue ones and held him fast. That voice which could make angels curse and demons cry seemed to wrap around the young man, invading his mind and subjugating his will. When the Vicomte's eyes glazed over, the ghost allowed himself a faint smile before continuing. **"You are returning to rehearsal after getting lost in the dormitory hallways. If asked, a stage hand guided you back to the stage but you did not catch his name. Do you understand, Raoul?"** At the boy's nod, Erik quickly led him upstairs and pushed him through a secret panel underneath the staircase leading to the dorms. Before retreating back into the darkness, a quick snap of his fingers set the nobleman free of his influence.

**xxxx**

In the house on the lake, Angelique Giry and Christine Daaé had finished their lunch and were sitting in the parlor by the fire. The silence had changed from companionable to uncomfortable. Both ladies had questions that demanded answers; yet they were as equally reluctant to ask as they were to answer. Christine dearly wanted to know more about the Opera Ghost but wasn't sure how to approach the subject without seeming incredibly rude and prying. She also dreaded the questions she knew the ballet mistress yearned to ask concerning her work at the Garnier. In the hopes of putting _that_ particular conversation off as long as possible, not until the next millennia if she could arrange it, she chose a more neutral topic to both of them and asked about her mother. Thankfully, Madame Giry was fretting over how much she should say if the girl should ask about Erik but was also just as uncomfortable at asking about the girl's past. When asked about Celeste Daaé, she grabbed onto the safer subject with relish. They were both giggling over some of Celeste's more outrageous pranks when a movement in the doorway caught the younger girl's attention.

"Erik." Though he was a slender man, Erik seemed to fill the doorway and block all else from her view. With the darkness behind him and the flickering light of the fire playing along his angular features, he looked ominous and imposing and every inch the Opera Ghost. Something stirred deep within her and she could feel the heat of a blush on her cheeks. Horrified, she turned her eyes back to the fireplace and wondered what on earth had gotten into her. Perhaps she wasn't feeling well? "Please come join us. Madame Giry was telling me about my mother when she was in the ballet corps." Christine was infinitely grateful that her voice remained steady since the rest of her was shaking as if she was standing naked in a snow storm. Yes, definitely not feeling well.

"You have had a nice visit, then?" Erik walked into the room to rest upon the mantel, reminding her once more of that big cat at the zoo. He never simply walked…he prowled and stalked from place to place. He was poetry in motion and his graceful movements enticed her to feast her eyes upon him. Once more her cheeks flamed at her wayward thoughts and, not daring to answer, she simply nodded. He gave her a questioning look before turning to address Madame Giry. "Angelique, we have two more names to add to the list for the Persian: Jean-Louis Gachot, the Comte de Lancival, and Vicomte Raoul de Chagny."

"The Vicomte is the new patron for the Garnier and, from all accounts, an honorable gentleman. He is due to ship out with the Navy in the next month or so, I believe. Some sort of expedition to the north."

"Yes, I believe he was simply used by Gachot to gain entrée into the Garnier. He seemed unremarkable."

"Be careful of Gachot, however," the ballet mistress warned. "There are a lot of rumors about that one, Erik, even ones that reach the opera house. He's not one to cross."

"Oh I don't plan to cross him, Angelique. I plan to kill him." Christine shuddered at his cold, emotionless tone and was glad once more that he appeared to hold her in some esteem.

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_A/N: I want to thank everyone who offered to read my little snippet and advise me on how to proceed. Due to recommendations, I will be changing the rating of this story to M when I post the chapter that contains that part. Thank you all for your lovely reviews as well as placing me on your alerts or favorites. It makes me feel all warm and squishy inside...either that or I need adult diapers :P_


	11. Le Fantôme Unmasked

_Disclaimer: Yes, I forgot this on the others :P Anyway, I don't own any of the characters created by Leroux or the plot that I'm currently twisted to my evil whims. I will state that the story will be moving to an M rating after this chapter due to disturbing segments integral to the plot. Not all bad guys are tragic heroes some are just mean. Gachot falls into the latter category._  


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**Chapter Eleven:**

**Le Fantôme Unmasked**

The house on the lake had fallen silent when Erik escorted Madame Giry back up to her room. Christine, worried about her strange reactions to her friend, had retreated to her room to mend her boy's outfit and think. When Erik stood in the doorway looking like some kind of avenging angel, she had felt warm all over like she'd caught a fever. On top of that, she'd blushed when he looked at her. She hadn't blushed in years! Snipping off the thread, Christine told herself that it was simply because this was the first time she'd told anyone even part of her story. Embarrassment and shame can both cause a person to blush. That had to be it; what else could it possibly be? At least she had prevented Madame Giry from learning of her shameful background.

Her mending finished, Christine held up the garment and viewed it with distaste. How she hated masquerading as a boy! She had little choice, though, if she wanted to eat without resorting to even more unsavory careers. She shuddered at the memory of the first job she'd been offered before taking on the guise of a boy. The lady had seemed so kind and helpful when she'd stepped from the train in Paris by offering a place to stay and a meal in exchange for a few chores. Naively, she'd agreed and left with the 'lady'; and then she saw the establishment and knew the chores weren't cooking and cleaning like she'd suspected. Nearly panicking, Christine entered the house but was left alone long enough for her to slip out a window and disappear into the streets. Once she noticed the unwanted stares and lewd offers, she took a set of boy's clothing that was hanging from a line. That was the first time she'd stolen anything but not the last. It was also when Chris was created. Life on the streets had been a little safer after that. And now, after everything she'd done to escape her past, _he_ had returned.

Christine thought of Erik's eyes when he'd stated he was going to kill Gachot. They'd been cold, predatory like the big cat she associated him with. If he'd said that about anyone else and in that tone of voice, she'd feel sorry for them. Now, however, she wondered if he'd let her watch…or even help. She knew she'd never rest easy until that man was dead and, though she knew it was wrong, hoped it would be by her hand. She sent a prayer to her father out of habit as she knew it was a sin to feel this way, to hate someone so much. There was little real penance in her prayer, however, as she couldn't find it in her to care much about a God who'd allow such atrocities to occur. Her introspective musings were brought to an abrupt halt when she heard someone knocking at the door.

Quietly, she stepped into the foyer and looked around for something to use as a weapon. Spying the fireplace poker, she eased it from the rack; she'd not be caught unarmed. The knocking grew louder, echoing throughout the underground home, and was joined by an irritated voice speaking in an unknown language. Christine heard Erik's name once or twice and was about to ask who it was when the door started to open slowly. Feeling cornered, panic set in and she swung the poker at the first person to walk through the door.

**xxxx**

The trip to return the ballet mistress had taken longer than normal since he stayed to request a few more gowns for his guest as well as outerwear and all the underthings a lady should need. He had just reached the underground lake when the chime of the alarms sounded. Erik stepped away from the faint light of the lantern at the prow of the gondola and blended into the shadows to hunt for the unfortunate soul who'd invaded his domain. Keeping his lasso at the ready, he silently circled the lake to use the small bridge that crossed the main tributary that fed into the lake. He was just about to loop the catgut around the intruder's neck when the man began pounding on the hidden door to his home. When he followed the racket with several colorful Persian curses, Erik realized who had come a-calling.

"Daroga, you should know better than to come to my home uninvited," stepping forward until only his golden eyes could be seen glowing in the darkness, the Opera Ghost threw his voice so that the door appeared to be talking. "It isn't…healthy."

"Uninvited? I was told _you_ wanted to see _me_, old friend."

"Regardless," Erik made a gesture and the lantern above the door flared to life, illuminating his guest. Although he'd been in Paris for many years, the Persian gentleman still dressed in his traditional clothing and hat of his homeland. The deep, earthy colors complimented the man's swarthy complexion and dark, mysterious eyes though the hat did little to hide the streaks of grey that had begun to take over his black hair. "I suppose I should let you in since you've braved the trip to get here." Stepping forward with a sigh, Erik unlocked the door and stepped in…right into the bruising impact of the fireplace poker.

"Oh my God!" Christine dropped the poker, covering her mouth in horror. "Erik! I'm sorry; I didn't know it was you. There was someone banging on the door and then it stopped and then…who are you?" She shrieked at the sight of the strangely dressed man in the doorway and reached for the poker again.

With a roar of pain and anger, Erik quickly disarmed his house guest and pinned her against the wall, the poker at her throat. His golden eyes glittered dangerously with a mix of fury and madness as he watched his prey struggle futilely. Just a few minutes more and the struggles would cease and the rats would have a banquet fit for royalty. But in her struggles to push away the iron pole, Christine's hand connected with his face and knocked the mask to the floor. Recoiling, Erik relaxed the poker just enough for her to slip beneath it and stumble away from the enraged ghost. Slowly turning to face her, he advanced slowly on her cringing form, the poker still clenched in his fist.

"So, you wanted to see, did you? You wanted to see the monster?" His eyes betrayed no hint of recognition and his voice was the deadly beauty of a cobra's hypnotic dance. Christine backed away until she was pinned against the sofa. "What do you think? Is Erik not a handsome fellow?"

"Erik," the oddly dressed man stepped in front of his friend, "don't do something you'll regret later." Without even acknowledging that he heard, Erik roughly pushed the man aside and continued his advance.

"Well?" He stopped mere inches from Christine, looming over her like a dark, tormented wraith. "What's wrong my dear? Do you have nothing to say to your Erik?"

Mustering every ounce of courage she had, she ignored the fury and tried to comfort his anguish. Raising a hand that shook only slightly, she laid it against his ravaged cheek and caressed it gently. "Does it…does it hurt, Erik?"

The poker fell from his numbed fingers at the first contact of her fingers on his horrible mess of a face. Cringing away from her, Erik fell to his knees to cover his face with his hands while a moan of pure pain rose from his throat. His thoughts were jumbled and tormented. _Dear God, she touched it! She touched my hideous face and didn't scream or faint or get ill. Surely she is an angel and I, I am the monster who has hurt her once again. _ He didn't notice that she'd knelt beside him until her fingers wrapped around his wrists to urge his hands from his face. Warily, he watched her and waited for the screams, the beatings, the cries of monster and demon. But she did none of these. Christine, his angel, once more let her hands explore his mangled cheek, her touch feather light. Unable to comprehend what was happening and control the overwhelming emotions her light touch inspired, Erik crumpled to the floor and sobbed. Christine's small arms wrapped around his shoulders and pulled his head tenderly onto her lap, caressing his hair while he cried.

Nearly an hour later found the three sitting by the fire, two pots of tea – one English, one Russian – set out between them, and an awkward silence that refused to dissipate. Erik, mask in place once more, could think of nothing beyond Christine's unusual reaction to his face. Perhaps she didn't get a good look? But no, that couldn't be it as he'd faced her with the light from the lamps shining upon him. Even more baffling was the fact that she touched it; not once, but twice! Never before had he been touched on his grotesque face with such tenderness and kindness. Her fingers had been soft and warm and oh so gentle that even now he could still feel their touch with a sense of wonder. It was then that he knew he'd do anything for his compassionate angel. He'd kill for her if that was what kept her safe and he'd die for her as well. The world had monsters enough but far too few angels.

"Erik?" The Persian's heavily accented voice interrupted his brooding and Erik fixed him with a frown. "I was told you wanted to see me?"

"Yes. I was wondering if you still had contacts within the gendarmes who'd be willing to provide information for a reasonable fee?" At the Persian's nod, the masked man stole a glance at his unusually quiet guest before giving the names of those he needed information on. Leaving out some key details, he said only that Beauvais and Gachot were suspected of assaulting a young singer on the streets of Le Havre and that one sustained potentially fatal injuries. He also wanted quiet inquiries as to the location of the grave site of one Gustav Daaé, the Swedish violinist, in or around the port town. Reaching into an inner pocket of his jacket, Erik pulled out several hundred francs and tossed the bundled into his friend's lap. "Let me know if you need more, Daroga."

"Very well, anything else?" The Persian glanced curiously at Christine but knew Erik would reveal only what he wished and no more. When the masked man didn't respond and was, instead, staring at the young lady with something akin to wonder, he repeated his question. To ensure he captured his attention, the Persian rose from his seat to stand between his friend and the lady.

"No, no, I think that's all." Erik barely acknowledged his friend's leaving the house.

**xxxx**

Once they were alone, Christine rose from her chair and began to gather the tea things. Everything she could think of to say seemed so inappropriate considering she'd nearly broken her host's ribs with a fireplace poker. In the kitchen, she washed up the cups and pots and set them out to dry still frantically thinking of some way to apologize. As she turned to escape to her room, she ran into Erik's slim but muscular chest. Their hands automatically grabbed the other to steady themselves and her every thought fled at the feel of his firm body beneath her fingers. Warmth flooded her body and her hands slid down his chest of their own accord to wrap around his waist. When his arms hesitantly wrapped around her, Christine felt safe and secure, like she'd come home at last.

"Christine." Erik breathed her name as a reverent prayer knowing he'd done nothing to deserve holding such an angel with his murderous hands. He gently ran his fingers through her curls and dared to plant the lightest of kisses on the crown of her head.

"Erik?" Her voice was muffled against his chest but she made no effort to move. "I'm sorry I hit you with the poker."

"What had frightened you so, mon ange?" His voice remained as soft and gentle as the fingers in her hair.

"That man…he was banging on the door and yelling something I couldn't understand." Her arms tightened around him. "And then the door opened and I didn't see anyone and you weren't here and…" She'd started to hyperventilate as she remembered that panicked, cornered feeling and Erik scooped her up and carried her back into the parlor. He sat on the sofa with her in his lap as he cradled her against his chest.

"Hush now, mon ange, it's over now. All is well."

"But it's not! I hit you with a poker, Erik, and…"

"And I very nearly strangled you with it." He silenced her with a finger across her lips. "Neither of us was at our best, my dear. I have a horrible temper which has kept me alive as often as it has gotten me into trouble. But that wasn't what I wished to speak with you about."

"No?" Christine knew she should make an effort to move off his lap but she hadn't felt so safe, so cherished since before her papa died.

"I…well…" Surprised, she risked a glance at his face; Erik was never less than perfectly eloquent. "I wished to know why you touched…" His voice trailed off as he raised a hand to the mask with a shudder.

"Why wouldn't I, Erik?" Christine pulled back in surprised confusion that swiftly turned to concern. "Oh! Did I hurt you?"

"Why wouldn't…?" His golden eyes were full of shock. "Christine, no one has ever touched my hideous face! My mother couldn't stand to look at it, covering my face before wrapping my newborn body in a blanket. Hurt me? My dear, you simply cannot imagine how your fingers felt upon my grotesque skin."

"Erik…" Tears filled her eyes as she stared up at him in horror. Before he could comprehend what she was about to do, Christine slipped the mask from his face and placed a gentle kiss against the ruined skin of his cheek. "You are not hideous or grotesque, Monsieur le Fantôme. You are simply…Erik."


	12. Il Muto

_A/N: This chapter contains content that, though it isn't really graphic, may be disturbing and is partially responsible for the M rating that the story has moved story will be taking a rather dark turn but I hope you all enjoy it nonetheless.  
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_And I don't own Erik or any of the other Leroux characters and I'd cheerfully give Gachot away as he's a bastard.

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**Chapter Twelve:**

**Il Muto**

Tonight was the first performance of Il Muto and, though he didn't particularly care for opera thinking it to be akin to the sound of cats fighting, Jean-Louis Gachot, Comte de Lancival, had managed to secure a place in the managers' box. There, he swallowed his bile and made small talk with the two buffoons who ran the theatre as well as the naïve Vicomte de Chagny. The managers extolled the glorious voice of their reigning prima donna, Carlotta Guidicelli, all while ogling the ballet corps' naked skin bared by their tutus. The Vicomte actually seemed to be there for the opera and had grown silent once the Overture began which gave Gachot a chance to step deeper into the shadows of the box and scan the flies for his little runaway whore. When he saw that fool, Buquet, try to get his attention he excused himself to his associates and made for the one place guaranteed to be empty with such a sell-out crowd: Box Five.

It didn't take long for the drunken stage hand to reach the box though he balked at entering. Ignoring his babbled protests of offending the so-called Opera Ghost, Gachot pulled him inside and pinned him against the closed door with a dagger at his throat.

"I will not risk being seen with you due to your ridiculous obsession with this so-called phantom of the opera. What have you discovered that couldn't wait until after the performance?"

"The boy never returned to work since that night I found him…her…in the chapel and now that little picture done gone missing too."

"I know that, imbecile!" The knife pressed harder against the man's flesh and a trickle of blood dripped onto his collar. "Do you know where she is?"

"No," he swallowed audibly at the look in Gachot's eyes and hurriedly continued, "but I know someone what might. Madame Giry, that old battleaxe of a ballet mistress, was seen buying up damn near a full wardrobe of girl's dresses and they were all wrong for her little dancer girl. She's also chummy with the Ghost, delivering his notes and salary and such."

Gachot eased back on the knife and let Buquet relax slightly. With a sneer, he tossed a small pouch of coins to the floor and left the ghost's box to plan his next move. She was near. He was getting closer; he could feel it. The smile that crossed his face was truly terrifying to behold and several patrons gave the darkly handsome man a wide berth. Slipping unnoticed into the managerial box, Gachot brooded. He was at a loss as to why he was so determined to find the girl. It certainly wasn't out of any perceived loyalty to Beauvais, a green buck straight from the country with too much money and too little sense.

Closing his eyes, he brought forth the memory of that night: the blood on her hands from murdering that young idiot, her pale skin as she lay unmoving across his bed, the silken curls in his hand as he held her in place while he plundered her young, tight body, her screams and cries when she regained consciousness and became aware of what was happening. He could feel his manhood hardening as he remembered the thrill of having so much power over another human being. The act itself was mundane but the fear, the terror, the absolute helplessness of that girl had unlocked something deep inside him, something he embraced with relish. In the privacy of the dark shadows of the box, he ran the tips of his fingers over his throbbing shaft as a feral smile crossed his lips. Eager to feel that thrill once more, he gazed at the ballet corps to choose a girl to sate his lusts. Soon, he would have _her_ under his control once more and he would thank her properly for showing him his true nature.

**xxxx**

Inside the hollow pillar, Erik seethed in murderous fury. Buquet would pay for his part in his angel's torment. Once the stage hand had left _his_ box, the ghost slipped into the dark passageway hidden by a painting to warn Angelique of Gachot's impending visit. Once he'd made his way silently backstage, he spotted the ballet mistress and threw his voice directly into her ear so no one else could hear. Glancing over at the curtain that hid him, Madame Giry waited until the corps once more took the stage before joining him in the shadows.

"What are you doing here, Erik?" She hissed in a low whisper. "You could get caught!"

"Buquet saw you returning with my angel's clothing, Angelique, and has passed that information on to Gachot. Watch your back, Madame; I would not see you hurt." Erik spoke quickly and quietly as his eyes continually scanned the flies for the drunken snitch.

"I can take care of myself perfectly well, Erik, but…Erik? Erik! How does he _do_ that?" Giry's annoyance faded into resigned exasperation when she realized she was alone behind the curtains once more.

Like a spider, the ghost ascended the ladders and stairs that led to the upper platforms of the flies. Spotting his quarry, he eased his lasso from his sleeve and stealthily advanced. La Carlotta hit an unnatural note during her aria which caused even the tone-deaf stage hand to wince and turn away. And look directly into the glowing golden eyes of the Opera Ghost. Eyes bulging in terror, the large man moved surprisingly fast along the catwalk. Erik welcomed the chase, allowing the darkness within to embrace his predatory nature.

Like a cat playing with a mouse, he allowed Buquet to increase the distance between them before closing in once more. He would even duck out of sight to give the stage hand a moment's respite and then would appear in front of him, lasso at the ready. All the while, La Carlotta squawked on stage while the audience was blissfully ignorant of the drama occurring above the stage. It was only when he spied the Comte in the box with the managers and the young Vicomte that it occurred to Erik that his toying with Buquet left Madame Giry unprotected against the bigger threat of Gachot. It was time to remove at least one threat.

It was close to the end of Carlotta's mangling of the song when he cornered Buquet. The acrid aroma of ammonia rent the air as a dark, wet stain appeared on the man's filthy trousers. Erik simply smiled and approached slowly. The stage hand tried a desperate feint to left but, in his inebriated state, teetered at the edge of the platform for mere seconds before plunging down to the stage. Erik pushed the Punjab lasso back into his sleeve with a grin at the irony of it all. He'd not so much as touched the man but there he hung in the middle of the stage with a broken neck from getting tangled in the many ropes that held the sets in place. The pandemonium that followed when Buquet's body was silhouetted against the backdrop allowed Erik an easy escape to one of his tunnels and into Angelique's room.

It took longer than normal for the ballet mistress to return to her chambers. All the girls were screeching and squawking like frightened geese and only after she'd laced their drinks with a drop of laudanum did they settle down. She was tempted to imbibe in a drop or two herself if only to stave off the headache that comes from being in a small room full of shrilly shrieking girls. The last thing she needed was to be visited by a ghost. When Erik stepped from the shadows to make himself known, it was a fitting end to a rather horrible day and she laid her head on her desk and groaned.

"Really, Angelique, you'll make me think you don't want to see me."

"Erik, what did you do?" Her words were muffled against her arms and she wondered, again, if she should take the laudanum and sleep.

"Nothing at all, Madame, 'twas drink that brought the stage hand low. Surely you aren't mourning that pitiful excuse for a human being?"

"Erik," with a sigh, Giry raised her head and ran a hand over her face, "the mere fact that Buquet _was_ a human being is enough to mourn him. All life is precious."

"It pleases me that you believe it to be so, Angelique, else you'd never have befriended the monster that haunts the opera house." Raising his hand to stop her protests, he opened the mirror and stepped through with a final word of caution. "Go no where alone, Angelique, even if all you have is one of your squawking geese. Gachot is less likely to harm you when there is a witness."

**xxxx**

The house by the lake was filled with the sounds of domestic bliss and the tantalizing aromas of traditional Swedish food. Erik had informed Christine that he'd be away until late to check on the status of his opera house as well as look for more information on Gachot and de Chagny and she thought it the perfect opportunity to do something for her mysterious host for a change. He'd barely cleared the door when she'd entered the kitchen to see what was stored in the pantry so she could plan a meal. Since he had only the bare necessities, she settled on a traditional Swedish dish she'd often made for her father. As she peeled, chopped, and boiled the potatoes she'd need, Christine sang some of the folk songs she'd learned as a child feeling at peace for the first time in two years.

While the potatoes cooked, she found a square piece of material that could be used as a table cloth and a pair of ornate candlesticks that would keep the melted wax from the cloth. Hoping she had time, Christine searched through Erik's desk for paper, small knives, and scissors to create paper placemats using the Scherenschnitte technique. After an hour she considered them done though she bemoaned their simplicity; she feared she'd run out of time for anything more intricate. There was nothing to be done about a centerpiece. Checking all the rooms that weren't locked, she could find nothing that would suffice and so had to admit defeat. Perhaps if she had more time…but no, the potatoes were done and the meat still needed to be chopped.

She had just placed the filled potato dumplings into the salt water to boil when she heard the front door open. Leaving the food simmering nicely, Christine stood in the doorway to the kitchen prepared to block Erik's entry if need be. She wanted the meal to be a surprise. Her host was impeccably dressed as always and she felt rather like a serving wench at a tavern with her hair tumbling from its bun and an apron protecting the lovely gown she was wearing.

"What is that lovely smell, mon ange? I cannot believe you could find the ingredients in Erik's poor kitchen to fix such a succulently scented dish."

"Your pantry was quite sufficient, Monsieur le Fantôme, never fear. If you will give me but a few minutes more, everything will be ready." Frowning as he advanced towards the kitchen, Christine laid a hand on his chest to stop him before he could enter. "No, you don't need to help. This is the least I could do for you, Erik, after all you've done for me."

"If it pleases you then I shall retreat to my piano but know this, mon ange, you owe me nothing." Smiling happily as she watched him move gracefully into the music room, Christine returned to the kitchen and her singing.

Not more than thirty minutes had passed when she removed the apron and made a half-hearted attempt to control her curly hair. Setting the plates on the table, she lit the candles and then went to fetch her Opera Ghost. Butterflies had invaded her stomach when he entered the kitchen; she did hope he'd be pleased at her efforts. He remained silent while pulling out her chair and pouring them both a glass of the iced lemon water from the pitcher she'd placed on the table. If he didn't say something soon, she was going to expire from nerves. Then he raised his eyes and she saw the tears that wet his cheeks.

"No one has ever done such a thing for me before, mon ange." His beautiful voice was hoarse with emotion and she reached for his hand to give it a light squeeze.

"I'm honored to be the first to treat you, Erik. It is but simple fare from my homeland so I hope you enjoy it." Noticing he was having some trouble controlling his emotions, Christine went into detail of the meat filled potato dish she called _Kroppkakor_ along with some of the regional variations. He asked her about her homeland and she told him what she remembered as well as regaled him with some of the more amusing stories from her travels. She knew something had happened at the opera that night, the acoustics down to this level were amazing, but she refused to let anything spoil this dinner. Erik deserved nothing less.

**xxxx**

Gachot said all the appropriate things when the opera house fell into a panic over the death of the stage hand even while he was cursing the loss of his drunken spy. The man may have been an idiot but he was still a useful idiot. Though there were cries of Opera Ghost, the Comte dismissed them as so much superstitious nonsense. He'd seen just how drunk the man had been and was only surprised it'd taken him this long to fall off a platform and kill himself. The managers attempted to calm the crowd but, even for an opera, a true death was a bit too much. With much fretting, they resigned themselves to refunding a full house. During the chaos, Gachot contemplated spiriting the ballet mistress away for a nice…chat but she seemed to have disappeared rather quickly. No matter, he would simply take one of the younger ballet rats, a girl of perhaps no more than fifteen years. No one paid any attention to the wealthy man as he led the naïve young ballerina to his waiting carriage. It wasn't until morning that Vivienne was missed. Three days later, her body was found floating in the Seine, an apparent suicide.


	13. Of Truths and Consequences

_A/N: This chapter contains content that, though it isn't really graphic, may be disturbing and is partially responsible for the M rating that the story has moved to. _

_And I don't own Erik or any of the other Leroux characters and I'd cheerfully give Gachot away as he's a bastard._

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**Chapter Thirteen:**

**Of Truths and Consequences**

The discovery of the little ballerina's body shocked all who worked and lived in the Palais Garnier. Not so much that she died, though it was tragic indeed, but that she died so far away from the opera house and in such a condition. Rumors ran rampant amongst the petite rats that the Opera Ghost had called forth hell's demons to aid him in his reign of terror. Buquet's death, though silently cheered by those who'd been caught by the lecherous old drunk, had only whetted the phantom's appetite for blood and he was now drawing the young ballerina's away for a night of hedonistic debauchery and human sacrifice. If Madame Giry had been shocked by all the stories surrounding her friend, Erik had been amazed at the girls' ghoulish imaginations. Both, however, were worried about this new threat to the weakest of the opera house's residents.

He had related the news of the stage hand's death to Christine and assured her it had been an accident. She seemed completely unaffected by the information though he thought he detected a certain gleam in her eye that hinted she wasn't unhappy with the news. By this time, they had fallen into a sort of routine in the days since she'd taken refuge in the house on the lake. Their first conflict arose when Christine discovered she slept in the only bed. After a rather heated argument, Erik had cleared space in his office for a small cot he'd appropriated from the ballet dormitories. Since Erik slept but little, he didn't see the point but if it made his angel happy (and his house quiet once more) he was content to humor her. In the mornings, he would have breakfast prepared for the two of them by the time Christine arose. They shared in washing up as well as any domestic chores that needed to be done: he took care of the music room and his office/bedroom while she cleaned the den and her bedroom. Lunch was a casual affair of sandwiches and fruit and tea, usually eaten in the den while they talked around the fire. Christine prepared dinner; sometimes it would be a traditional Swedish dish like the first night she cooked for him, at others she would try a recipe she'd gotten from Madame Giry. Both were rather amazed at how…normal their existence was as long as one ignored the fact that their home was in the fifth cellar, one was a murderer on the run while the other was the infamous Opera Ghost.

The first change to their situation accompanied Erik's Persian friend when he returned a week after his first unforgettable visit; the information he brought would destroy Christine's short-lived peace. After exchanging the normal pleasantries, they settled by the fire with a pot of tea laced with brandy to stave off the cold and turned their attention to the situation at hand. The first two pieces of information were, while not good news, not necessarily bad either. After the innkeeper identified Gustav Daaé, the gendarmes searched his room and found references to a house in Perros-Guirec. With no one to claim the body, city officials had placed him on a train for that town and the Persian awaited further information concerning his final resting place there. The second piece of news concerned the man known to Christine only as Beauvais. A son of an untitled but wealthy landowner, François Beauvais had, indeed, died of his injuries in Le Havre. The state of the room, as well as several distinctive items turning up in pawn shops, led the gendarmes to conclude he'd interrupted a burglary and closed the case after delivering his remains to his family.

Of the other two gentlemen, the Persian had been amazed they were grouped together as they were as different as night and day. The Vicomte de Chagny was the youngest child and second son of a well-respected noble family. Considered by all to be handsome, charming, and personable, young Raoul was doted upon by his elder sisters and his mother, protected by his big brother, and tolerated by his father. After returning from university, he was set to join an expedition to the north with the navy. The men in his family hoped it would toughen up the softer side gained from so much female attention while he simply yearned for adventure. He sincerely loved the arts and was one of the few patrons who went to the opera for the music and not the ballet corps.

If the Vicomte's life was open and free of secrets, Jean-Louis Gachot's was a mystery wrapped in layers of subterfuge and obfuscation. The son of a second cousin to Henri Gachot, he was fifth in line to inherit the title, fortune, and lands. A yachting accident during the turbulent autumn months claimed the lives of Henri as well as both of his sons, their wives, and their children. There was a thorough investigation since the Gachot's didn't own a yacht but nothing was found out of the ordinary and their deaths were ruled a horrible accident. There were rumors that Jean-Louis had damning information on the inspectors who led the case but nothing was ever proven and he stepped into the title without any who could contest it.

"This man is dangerous, my friend, and quite willing to do whatever it takes to achieve his goals. He keeps a mistress but she refused to speak to me no matter how many francs I offered. She wasn't loyal, she was terrified. He routinely uses the services of a bordello, requesting their youngest virgins who are often not returned at all." At Christine's gasp, Erik fixed the Persian with a glare. "My apologies, Mademoiselle, if I have distressed you."

"And…was he in Le Havre?" She hated how her voice shook but, for the first time, she was gaining a name to the face in her nightmares. "Two years ago, was he there?"

"Oui, Mademoiselle. There are several who remember him well as they lost at cards to the Comte le Lancival during his stay there."

"It's him…" Christine paled and her hand shook as she replaced her cup on the tray. She sat in silence for a long, awful moment and when her eyes met Erik's, he was heartbroken at the bleak emptiness there. "When do we go after him?"

**xxxx**

Erik watched his angel with growing concern. The verification that the Comte was the man who'd assaulted her, that he was here in Paris and often visited the Garnier had shaken her to the core. Even the confirmation that Beauvais had died from wounds sustained by her hand failed to upset her as much as this. He wanted so badly to help her heal but didn't know where to begin. Until she told him all of what had happened that awful night in Le Havre he was left with little to nothing to go on. The Persian, realizing they needed time to absorb his information, left the folder containing his information in the chair he'd just vacated and slipped quietly out of the house. The silence in the wake of his leaving was deafening as neither knew what to say.

"Mon ange," Erik began but was interrupted when she held up a hand and shook her head.

"I know what you want to ask but I can't. I'm just not ready to tell you." _'Or to see the light of disgust in your eyes or watch as you do all you can to avoid touching me,'_ she added silently.

"No, Christine." His voice was as soft as eiderdown and she looked up at him in surprise and horror fearing she'd spoken her thoughts aloud again. "No matter what you have done or what was done to you, I could never view you as anything but my angel."

**xxxx**

The tears came then though she tried to hide them. She wept as much for her future as for her past. Her girlish dreams, encouraged and nurtured by her father, had been shattered in mere hours one dark night and, like ripples in a pond, the effects continued to spread. Rage and despair warred for dominance within her and she was helpless against their battering of her soul. When she felt the sofa dip beneath his weight and his strong but gentle arms draw her into his embrace, Christine knew she had to tell him. And then she would leave to hunt down Gachot alone.

When she began her tale, Erik stroked her hair tenderly and murmured soothing words in her ear. The longer she spoke, however, the angrier he became and she could feel the rising tension in his body. She had planned to be brief and only tell what she remembered once she'd regained consciousness. But as she spoke, a dam burst inside her and she was sobbing out everything into his once crisp shirt. She told of how she'd awakened, naked and strapped facedown on his bed, to the horrifying pain he was inflicting upon her. That she'd only realized what he was doing when he noticed she was conscious and began praising her for being a good little whore. He'd told her how aroused he became when she killed his "friend" to see such passion and hatred; how he'd enjoy the challenge of breaking her; how he kept her until sunrise and used her over and over again until her screams and cries of pain became mere whimpers which eventually ceased altogether.

He'd freed her right as the sun broke the horizon, giving her one final humiliation: he'd tossed several hundred francs on the bed in front of her tear and sweat stained face. Christine fled the inn and Le Havre before the sun grew high overhead. She stopped to bathe at every stream, every river, every lake or pond but she never felt clean. She still didn't. The first ripple of that night came two months after her flight: she was pregnant. Pregnant with her rapist's child. She became hysterical at the news and had to be sedated at the doctor's office. Once she'd calmed enough for them to release her, she committed her second murder. She found an herbalist and, using the money _he_ had left her, she purged her body of his spawn. She remembered little after that having retreated into her mind to avoid the torment her life had become.

She'd worked in several theaters before the Garnier. Her love for music hadn't died but she couldn't bear to perform without her father's accompaniment and she feared the gendarmes would take her away. So she worked as a seamstress or a cleaner or whatever menial job was available. These positions seemed to bring unwanted attention from the patrons of the less respectable theaters and so Christine became Chris and worked in the crew. She changed theaters more often after that so no one would question why Chris never grew up. She finally ended at the Garnier. Her life, while not happy, had at least evened out to some form of contentment until she looked down from the flies and saw _him_. She was hardly aware of what she did or said; the only thing she knew was that she had to leave, had to escape. Christine had gone to the chapel to retrieve her father's portrait and say her farewells to the Opera Ghost when she'd been accosted by Buquet. In her struggle to get away, he had been responsible for her bruised cheek as well as the blood beneath her nails as she clawed her way free of him. She didn't remember Erik's arrival, nor how she came to be in his home, only that she was glad it was he who'd found her.

As her voice died and silence descended once more, Christine trembled as she awaited his order for her to gather her things and leave. She was dirty. She was a murderer. Murdering your attacker was one thing but she had murdered an innocent child with full knowledge and planning. There wasn't a penance that existed to save her black soul which was now as tainted as her body. As the silence continued, she eased from his embrace without daring to look at him. If she saw the disgust that she knew he must now feel for her, it would shatter her into tiny pieces from which there would be no recovery.


	14. A Gauntlet is Thrown

_Disclaimer - I don't own anything but Gachot. Dammit._

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**Chapter Fourteen:**

**A Gauntlet is Thrown**

Throughout Christine's story, Erik's anger continued to rise until he dared not to even look at his angel for fear he'd traumatize her even further. The things he'd planned to do to Gachot seemed pedestrian now that he knew the complete story. It was going to take more creativity to truly hurt him as he deserved; Erik would need to go shopping once more. When her voice dwindled away to nothing, he had a tenuous hold on his fury and sanity. It wasn't until he felt the small figure ease from his arms that he realized she might have taken his silence in a way he hadn't intended. She was in her room in a flash and he could hear her sobs through the door.

"Christine?" It took great effort to keep his simmering anger from his voice. He didn't want her to think he was angry at her for any reason. "Please open the door_, mon ange_." When there was no reply other than her tears, he eased the door open only to find her room empty. The rustling behind the bathroom door alerted him to her hiding place and he crossed the room to knock softly on the door.

When the door finally opened, his eyes widened to see his angel dressed as the young boy once more. Her gorgeous hair was braided and pinned tightly under the battered hat and her clothing, though clean, had more patches than original cloth. She'd scrubbed her face but her eyes, red and puffy, were still bright with unshed tears. They also looked everywhere but at him and his heart broke a little bit more.

"If you would kindly show me the way out, I will bother you no more _Monsieur_ Devereaux." Christine's voice shook but that was all the emotion she allowed to show.

"Christine…"

"No_, Monsieur_, don't. Please. I…I knew…I expected this once you'd heard everything but I would prefer not to get lost in the tunnels." She brushed past him quickly so that he wouldn't see the fresh tears on her cheeks. "I promise that…that I've taken nothing, _Monsieur_, but what I had when I arrived so, if you would…" Erik's hand on her shoulder spun her around to face him and she fell silent, shocked at the anger on his face. His fingers, wrapped around her upper arms, tightened to the point that she knew she'd carry bruises as he shook her.

"Is that what you think I'm worried about, Christine? Do you think I give a damn about all these useless pieces of junk?" Flinging her aside so she fell onto the bed, Erik picked up a vase and shattered it against the opposite wall. "Dammit, child, I could replace everything in this house a hundred times over and you dare to assume I'm going to accuse you of theft? No, I will not show you how to navigate the tunnels as I'm not letting you leave this house until it is safe to do so."

"Letting me?" Christine's fear of his outburst was overshadowed by her anger at his high-handedness. "You're not _letting_ me? _Monsieur_, you are gravely mistaken if you think I'm going to be controlled by any man ever again. I **will** be leaving." Rolling off the bed, she marched determinedly to the door only to be stopped once more by those firm, unrelenting hands.

"Very well, _mon ange_. If you will not listen to reason…" Tossing her back onto the bed, he quickly slipped out the door. A grim smile graced Erik's lips at her shriek of frustrated anger when the lock clicked into place. "When you are willing to converse in a more civilized manner, _mademoiselle_, I shall unlock the door. And throw those clothes in the fire!" Pocketing the key, he entered the music room. A song was forming in his mind and he wanted to get it on paper before he forgot.

**xxxx**

Christine paced the small room like a caged tiger. She'd never liked being confined and after that night she liked it even less. It made her feel helpless and that was something she was determined not to be. Pulling out a hairpin, she set to work on the lock; she wasn't an expert but she wasn't a novice either. Ten minutes turned into thirty and then an hour and she was still no closer to unlocking her door than when she started. Who puts such difficult locks on the _inside_ of a house? A thought occurred to her that made her groan. If they were this bad on the inside, how difficult is the exterior lock? With a frustrated growl, Christine tossed the hairpin across the room to join the pieces of the broken vase. She knew she was being foolish for trying to leave but pride and stubbornness refused to bow to logic. She wouldn't stay where she was pitied.

Another two hours had passed before she heard Erik's knock at the door. During this time she'd counted 120 floor tiles, 250 boards that made up the wainscoting, seventeen candles (five of which were lit), and five spiders of various types and sizes. She was bored out of her mind which did little for her temper. So when Erik knocked, she was itching for a fight…anything to change up the monotony of being in that room alone.

"Are you ready to let me go, _Monsieur_?"

The door opened slowly as if he feared her reaction, which was wise. He barely had time to duck the vase that matched the one he threw earlier. As it shattered against the door frame, Christine was already looking for her second missile while a grim smile of satisfaction graced her lips at his muttered curse. If she could get him away from the door, she could slip past him and lock _him_ in. Something tickled the back of her mind that this might not be the wisest course but she was no longer listening to logic. The glass by the pitcher of water on her vanity was the next contestant and she aimed away from the door's hinges this time, hoping to herd him into leaving a gap she could use. When he moved further into the room, she saw her chance and bolted towards the door. Not a good idea.

She was almost through when an arm like a steel band caught her around the waist and spun her back into the room and onto the bed. The momentum of snatching her and spinning her around had carried him as well and he'd landed atop her with enough force to knock the air from both their lungs. Christine glared into Erik's furious amber gaze and was reminded once more that he was also the infamous Opera Ghost. Caught as surely as a fly in a web, she watched as the anger faded to be replaced by something just as intense. Before she had a chance to say or do anything, Erik leaned forward and kissed her. Hard. Then sanity and reason returned and he flew across the room to huddle in the corner.

"Erik is so sorry, _mon ange_. Erik should never have touched his Christine with his hideously deformed lips. Please don't die, _mon ange_, Erik is so sorry. Please don't die."

Christine laid in stunned silence wondering why he'd kissed her. Did he think she was fair game now that he knew of her past? But no, that didn't seem like Erik at all. Then why? Bringing a shaking hand to her tingling lips, she remembered the feel of his. They were soft, oddly textured on the right side but not unpleasantly so, and warm; so warm she could feel it running through her body. Slowly, she became aware that Erik was crouched in the corner, sobbing and rocking back and forth like a child after a particularly harsh punishment. It took a while for her sluggish brain to comprehend his words. _He thought she'd die if he kissed her? Jesus, Mary, and Joseph! Who had told him that rubbish?_ She never thought she'd want a man that close to her after her attack but it had felt…nice. She always felt so safe with Erik; she still did. He was nothing if not a gentleman.

Christine rose from the bed and approached him cautiously; she felt that one incorrect move on her part and he'd bolt from the room like a frightened rabbit. Kneeling before him, she gently took Erik's hands and eased them from his face.

"Erik! What…what have you done?" His fingers were red from where he'd clawed at his face leaving several large gashes on the already mangled skin. "We have to get you cleaned up; it could get infected." He didn't resist when she pulled him into the bathroom and sat him on the small stool by the tub while Christine gathered the needed medical supplies. Erik's eyes remained unfocused during the entire procedure and he never so much as winced, even after the sting of ointment. Once he was clean and doctored, she led him into the den and sat next to him on the sofa growing ever more worried when he remained unresponsive. After more than ten minutes, he turned to look at her as if surprised to see her.

"Christine? Why…?" His golden eyes widened as he remembered what had occurred and he stood from the sofa quickly only to be tugged back down. "Please forgive me, _mon ange_. I promise it will never happen again."

"Erik?" Reaching over, she gently turned his face to hers. "Why would you think I'd die?"

"I am hideous, Christine, a monster. My…my mother wouldn't let me touch her for fear of what I might do to her." She wasn't sure what was more disturbing; what he'd been told or that he believed it and repeated it so matter-of-factly.

"You are not a monster, Erik. And…and it wasn't awful. It was actually quite nice." A blush tinted her cheeks as she said this and she wondered if she was beginning to feel more than friendship for her host. This would never do!

**xxxx**

Practice had ended for the day and Madame Giry was glad. Ever since the death of the little ballerina, Vivienne, the girls in the ballet corps were more nervous and jumpy than ever before. Before dismissing them, she reminded them all to travel no where alone, inside or outside of the opera house; and patrons did not count. Tired and aching, the girls slowly left the practice room as Angelique packed up the necessary bandages and poultices a ballerina always needed. It wasn't until she turned to leave that she realized she wasn't alone.

"_Bonjour_, Madame Giry," the gentleman bowed in greeting. He was richly attired and handsome and would have been quite appealing if not for the hard set to his jaw and the calculatingly cold gleam in his eyes.

"_Bonjour_, _Monsieur le Comte._ If you will excuse me, I must see to my girls." Giving her best ballet mistress glare, she waited for him to move from the doorway but he remained still. She felt a small frisson of alarm run through her when he stepped into the room and closed the door.

"I'm afraid I must insist, _Madame_, on a private audience. You see, you have a friend who has taken something that belongs to me. I am a forgiving man, _Madame_, and would be willing to overlook certain things if it were to be returned to me within, shall we say, twenty-four hours. However, I am not one to cross and if my property is not in my grasp by the appointed time, I am certain the _gendarmes_ will be most pleased to know that Buquet's murderer is at large and hiding beneath the Garnier." Though she was shaking inside, not once did she drop her haughty demeanor and piercing stare.

"I don't know where you get your information, _monsieur_, but _I_ do not associate with thieves and murderers. Now move away from the door so I can leave, you have delayed me long enough." Head held high, Angelique attempted to brush past him but was stopped by the press of cold metal against the side of her neck and an unmoving arm around her waist.

"Listen well, you supercilious bitch," Gachot increased the pressure until she could feel a trickle of blood running down her neck. "You will tell that freak to deliver my property to Box Five by the end of the Overture tomorrow night or I'll take another of your precious little ballet rats home for a night of fun. And I will continue to do so every day until I reclaim what is _mine_. Do you understand?" The last came out as a low hiss which very nearly froze the blood in her veins. Defeated, she simply nodded and the sharp bite of the blade was gone from her neck. Just as she was satisfied they were through with their "talk", he grabbed her arm and spun her around to face him. With a sneer that twisted his handsome face into pure evil, he brought the knife up and slashed across her cheek. "To help you remember, _Madame_."

He left the room in high humor, his laughter carrying more than a hint of madness. Angelique quickly pulled the bandages from her basket to press against her bleeding cheek. She had to tell Erik and soon. They had to find some way to stop that monster from hurting any more of her girls without sacrificing Christine.


	15. The best laid schemes o' Mice an' Men

_Disclaimer - I do not own or claim to own anything or anyone created by Leroux. Nor do I own the title...it's from a poem by Robert Burns, To a Mouse (November, 1785)

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**Chapter Fifteen:**

**The best laid schemes o' Mice an' Men**** oft go awry…**

The faint tinkling of an alarm broke the silence that had begun to grow awkward in the house on the lake. Erik quickly replaced his mask and bade her to remain in the house; Christine agreed without protest. Pausing only to fasten his cloak about his shoulders and grab his fedora, the ghost slipped out the door to see who had invaded his home. Slowly pulling out the pins that secured the hat, Christine took a long frank look at her feelings for her masked host. She valued him as a friend, that much she'd already been aware, but these new feelings were most unwelcome. She couldn't allow herself to fall for anyone when there was no chance it would ever be reciprocated. With fresh tears forming, she returned to her room very much afraid her heart had already taken that leap.

Changing into a simple pale blue dress, Christine considered her options. If everything were to be settled with Gachot, she could finally take the stage like her father wanted. She was certain Erik would train her voice but, after two years of working at being invisible, did she really long to have so many eyes focused on her? No, aspirations of the stage were her father's dreams, not hers. What then? Christine had no desire to don her boy's clothing and take to the flies but she needed a profession, a place to stay, and food on her table. As she entered the kitchen to put a kettle of water on for tea, an idea struck her that seemed perfect: housekeeper and cook to the Opera Ghost. She giggled softly at the thought. What a job description! She would definitely give Erik his bedroom back, of course, but she could happily remain in the house on the lake. She ignored the voice whispering that it would keep her close to him as well.

The kettle's whistle jarred her from her introspection and masked the sound of the door opening. She nearly dropped the kettle when Erik rushed in with a rather disheveled and…bleeding? Madame Giry.

"Angel, in the bathroom is a first aid kit. I need it, some towels, and boiling water."

"The tea kettle had just come to a boil, Erik, so water is ready. I'll be right back with the rest." A brief pause at the door, "Gachot?" His grim nod dropped her heart into her toes. Already those around her were paying for the sins of her past.

Reentering the kitchen with the necessary items as well as a candle to sterilize the needle, Christine laid everything within Erik's easy reach and moved out of his way. She sat by Madame and took her hand with a reassuring squeeze. He made quick work of cleaning and stitching her cheek, his golden voice singing hypnotically to dull the pain. Once he was finished and everything cleaned and put away, Christine put more water on to boil and began preparing a light snack to go with tea as Angelique related all that had happened with Gachot. When the kettle whistled, she brought everything to the table and poured for each of them wondering if she was strong enough to do what needed to be done.

"The bastard." Erik's growl made the hairs on the back of her neck stand up and a shiver ran down her spine. "I had a feeling he was responsible for the little rat's murder. He has to be stopped, Angelique."

"I know, Erik, but how? If you take him from the Opera House, the gendarmes will be swarming the place like a hive of angry bees. I'd rather he pay for what he's done, not you."

"Simple, Madame," Christine's soft voice eased into the discussion. "I go to him tomorrow as he wishes and Erik follows. There can be no connection to the Garnier if he is disposed of in his own home." Though she was proud that her voice remained steady, she couldn't keep the blood from leaving her face. She knew the risks if Erik was delayed or got separated from them altogether.

"**NO!**" Erik stood so quickly that his chair toppled over with a loud crash. "Absolutely not! I will not lead you like a lamb to the slaughter into the monster's lair."

"You know it's the only way, monsieur. I will not let another suffer in my stead."

"So you would willingly return to him after all he's done to you?"

"Of course not!" Horrified he'd think such a thing, her own anger began to stir and she stood and glared up at him. "How dare you think I _want_ to return to him! Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, you know what he's done to me! I could never knowingly put another in that position."

"And what if we get separated, Christine? What if he doesn't return to his estate and I lose you?" He grabbed her shoulders and shook her, trying to make his point. "You little fool; there are too many things that could go wrong that would put you at his mercy once more. It's because I know what he's done that I refuse to turn you over like some kind of sacrificial offering." Suddenly he pulled her into a tight embrace and murmured against her hair. "I cannot risk losing you, mon ange."

Angelique, forgotten momentarily at the table, watched the two with a speculative gaze. She'd never seen her masked friend get so worked up over the well-being of anyone and yet he was shaking with both anger and fear over his little angel. Christine also seemed to be clinging to him a bit more than mere friendship would allow. Could Erik have fallen for her? Would she allow herself to return his affections? Seeing that they were far too comfortable holding each other, she called forth her best ballet mistress voice and ordered them back to their seats. It was all she could do to hide her amusement when they jumped apart like a pair of scalded cats and quickly took their seats.

"Thank you, it made my neck hurt to look up at you both." Hiding her grin in her tea cup at their discomfort, she took a fortifying sip before continuing. "Erik, the girl does have a point…"

"…and a name." Christine's soft murmur earned her a glare from Angelique and a smirk from Erik.

"As I was saying, she has a point. If he were to believe that Christine went to him against our wishes…"

"…which would be the truth." This time it was Erik whose muttered interjection received Angelique's glare and Christine's smirk.

"…he might be less inclined to stay for the entire performance which allows you to spirit him away from the Garnier with few witnesses."

**xxxx**

Hidden in the secret tunnels near Box Five, Erik was in a foul mood and itching to take it out on Jean-Louis Gachot. For hours he'd tried to come up with some plan that did not involve putting Christine back into the clutches of that monster. Unfortunately, time was against them and so he agreed with extreme displeasure. His angel had chosen to wear her boy's attire for the meeting, citing ease of movement through the tunnels, but he knew there was more to it than that. He chose not to press the issue and put more strain on her nerves and his temper. The orchestra had just started warming up when Gachot entered the box. It was time for them to put on a show worthy of the stage.

The lights dimmed as the first strains of the Overture began and Erik took advantage of that short moment before one's eyes could adjust to silently step from the passageway and into the darkest corner of the box. In all his years of being subjected to the violence and hatred of mankind, there was no one he'd ever wanted to kill as badly as he wanted to kill the man who now sat before him. The fact that it would be so easy to do so now and yet knowing he could not did nothing for his temper. A deliberate movement made Gachot aware of his presence and Erik smiled evilly when the man's face reflected fear at being caught unaware before he'd schooled his features into one of indifference.

"You must be the infamous Opera Ghost I keep hearing about. Nice trick with the eyes, _Monsieur le Fantôme_."

"It is no trick, Gachot," the golden voice of the angels now reverberated through the box with such evil menace that it sent a shiver down his foe's spine. "You wish to reclaim something you once abused, discarded, and very nearly destroyed but I am here to inform you that will never happen. Do not press this matter, Gachot, or I will take great delight in persuading you to reconsider." Before the Comte could respond in any way, there was a sudden, blinding flash and smoke in the center of the box. When the spots finally faded from his eyes, Gachot was alone in the box once more.

Back inside the passageway, Christine was having a hard time gathering the courage to play her role. When Erik reentered the dark tunnel, she flung herself into his arms and begged him to come for her, to save her once they were away from the Palais Garnier. He gently stroked up and down her back and whispered his promises before reluctantly releasing her to go wait in Gachot's carriage. Shaking and very nearly hyperventilating, Christine waited until the end of the first aria before exiting the tunnel and into the box with the man who'd ruined her life.

**xxxx**

She was here. Gachot smiled as he kept his eyes on the stage. He knew her kind well; she'd not let another suffer in her stead. He briefly wondered how she'd escaped the Opera Ghost but was truly unconcerned with the how, or even the why, as long as she was here. Without even so much as a glance to acknowledge her, he patted the seat beside him. She was slow to come near him and he could practically feel her fear rolling off her in waves. Excellent. He couldn't wait to have her under his control once more.

"I have to thank you, my dear," his soft murmur barely cut through the screeching of La Carlotta but she heard; he knew it the moment he saw the shudder envelope her small frame. "I never knew myself until that night with you. You've shown me what I am and what I was meant to be. That's why I had to have you back, to show my…appreciation." Her whimper when he trailed his hand along her thigh ignited his blood. To hell with the opera; he wanted her now!

Standing, he finally looked at her and smirked at her disguise. She didn't make a very convincing lad in his mind. She was far too frail and effeminate to be considered anything but what she was but he was going to enjoy unwrapping the gift so cleverly packaged for him. A flare of light from the stage chased the shadows from the box and he considered taking a sample of her delights right there in the theater. The fear plainly wrought on her face as well as her steady rain of tears had him harder than a virgin boy in a whorehouse. When she cringed away from his hand, he smiled evilly and wrapped his fingers in her tight braid and pulled her from her seat and flush against his body.

"We are going home to have some fun, my dear. If you value the lives of everyone in this pathetic building, I'd advise you to keep your mouth shut as we walk to the carriage. I'm sure the ballet wench is dear to you, is she not?" At her terrified nod, he chuckled. "It is up to you to keep her breathing. Do not forget it." Grasping her arm tightly, he escorted her out of the Garnier and into his waiting carriage. With a tap to the roof, they left the relative safety of the opera house and its resident ghost.

* * *

_A/N: The next couple of chapters are, again, fairly disturbing. You have been warned. Also, thank you to all who have reviewed or placed any of my stories on their favorites list; it is much appreciated._


	16. Vengeance is mine, I will repay

_Disclaimer & A/N: I fear the disturbing chapters aren't quite finished but they're getting there. Feel free to hate Gachot all you'd like for he'll do nothing to endear himself to anyone. I don't own anything PotO and the quote isn't even mine but from the bible._

* * *

**Chapter Sixteen:**

**Vengeance is mine, I will repay, so sayeth the Lord**

As the carriage rumbled down the dark city streets, Christine felt more and more of her hope fading. She'd not seen Erik since he'd left her in the tunnels. Was he hurt? Had he deserted her? Across from her sat the most evil man she'd ever met in her life and she'd walked right back into his clutches in the hopes of a rescue. A shudder traveled down her spine as she felt his evil eyes on her. Erik said that _he_ was a monster but he was wrong. A face didn't make a person a monster. Jean-Louis Gachot was a handsome man by anyone's standards; athletic of build with dark brown wavy hair and doe-brown eyes that on another man would be nearly irresistible. And yet…Erik was the one who'd taken her in, cared for her, held her while she cried, and wiped away her tears. Gachot had abused her mind, body, and soul to the point she felt worthless. If Erik's face made him the monster then Gachot must be the very devil himself.

A shift in the seat beside her had Christine cringing closer to the door even as his fingers twisted painfully in her hair to hold her still. Without saying a word, Gachot removed the hairpins one by one and then loosened the braid so her curls flowed loosely down her back. Keeping a tight grip on her hair, he leaned forward and started on the buttons of her shirt, relishing her whimper of terror and her elevated heart rate. Desperately, she tried to push his hand away but he merely tightened his hold and pulled her head back until she cried out in pain. Satisfied she'd learned her lesson, he returned his attention to her shirt and then the band she'd wrapped around her chest to conceal her womanly figure.

"Do not even dream of covering yourself, my dear." His murmur was coldly whispered into her ear even as her hands were rising to her breasts. Her tears flowed harder as she dropped her hands back to her lap. Christine captured her bottom lip in her teeth hard enough to break the skin to keep from screaming when he grabbed one of her breasts in his hand and cruelly and painfully fondled it. "These past two years have been good to you. You're now a woman instead of the child I remember. How many have had you since, my dear? How many have you spread your legs for?" Abruptly, he released her and moved to the seat opposite. "Undress."

"Wh…what?" Her face, already pale with fear and pain, turned a sickly shade of white. "No! I can't…please don't…"

"What did you say?" One dark brow arched in disbelief and Christine whimpered at the anger building in his eyes. "I thought I heard you tell me no. I'm sure I was mistaken…wasn't I?"

Terrified, Christine dropped her eyes and began working on the ties of her trousers. Her hands shook so badly she was having trouble with the knots. Gachot, running out of patience, pulled a knife from his jacket and sliced through the laces. With her trousers cut nearly in half, it wouldn't be long before she was naked and totally at his mercy. Even as she slid the ruined cloth down her legs, she prayed fervently that Erik was nearby.

**xxxx**

Carefully hidden, Erik prayed to the god he never truly believed in to keep his angel safe. He had no way of knowing what was happening inside and it ate at his soul; Gachot didn't seem like a man who cared to wait to slake his disgusting lusts. The thoughts of what Christine had to be suffering at that monster's hands made him curse this fool of a plan even more than before. Before his anger could cloud his judgment, the carriage pulled up to a run down warehouse whose bay doors were already open and waiting. The sound of their closing echoed throughout the building and sent fear into his heart. He would have to act soon; he'd not have his angel violated again.

The coachman climbed down and opened the door for his master and his plaything; openly ogling lustily at her now-naked body. He and Gachot laughed at some shared joke before Christine was dragged over to the far wall and shackled hand and foot. He gave her an order too quiet for Erik to hear and, when she didn't obey immediately, the Comte slapped her hard across her face and splitting her already bleeding lip even more. The darkness very nearly stole away rationale and Erik was hard pressed not to reveal his presence and rescue his Christine. With great effort, he reigned in his murderous fury; if there were more men in the warehouse, he'd do his angel no favors getting careless now. While Gachot was distracted, Erik slid silently from beneath the carriage and caught the coachman with an expertly thrown lasso. Quickly pulling him close to cover his mouth, he whispered a question in the man's ear and received a quick shake of denial. There were no others in the building. Unfortunately for the coachman, Erik had seen the way the man's eyes had darted towards one of the doors and his punishment for the lie was a quick tug that left the man on the floor quite dead.

Sparing a glance at Gachot and Christine, he nearly gave away his position at what he saw. The man was touching his angel in places he had no right to. Already there were bruises forming on the fair skin of her breasts and thighs. Desperate now to hasten the man into eternal torment, Erik hugged the shadows as he crept towards the door the coachman had indicated. Once more he gave a silent prayer, this time that the hinges were well-oiled, and was rewarded when the door swung open silently. There were two men at the window watching Gachot; one was leaning against the wall with a cruel smile on his face while the other had pulled up a chair and lowered his trousers to bare his throbbing manhood. He even had the temerity to stroke himself as he watched his boss violate the girl. Erik smiled maliciously as the lights inside the small room went out. His evil laughter, though too soft for anyone outside to hear, was the last sound the two men heard. Erik turned to stare out the window as the last of the two bodies hit the floor.

_Hold on, my love, the Angel of Death has come to free you._

**xxxx**

Every part of her body ached; her wrists were cut and bleeding from the shackles that held her upright, her breasts were stinging from his constant pinching and harsh groping, her face throbbed from his slap, and the area between her legs burned from his torturous probing fingers. Christine hadn't seen Erik and was sinking further and further into despair.

"You don't seem to be enjoying yourself, my dear." Gachot's cruel chuckle sent a frisson of pure terror down her spine which increased exponentially when he began removing his clothing. "I suppose what you're waiting for is a repeat of our first glorious night together, hmm? Oh, but let's not be dull, my little whore. Variety is the spice of life, you know, and I'm sure you've learned much in the last two years." Mute with fear, Christine watched as his jacket and waistcoat were joined by his shirt, shoes, and trousers. Once more he stood before her, naked and aroused. Once more she was helpless and at his mercy.

Placing a chair between her splayed legs, Gachot sat and ran his hands up her thighs to cruelly probe her once more. Her desperate cries and attempts to avoid his painful touch only served to arouse him more and he continued his assault while stroking his aching erection.

"Do you know what, my dear? Though I want nothing more than to fuck you until you begged for mercy, I have thought of something even better. Something that will break you, destroy you, and make you mine forever." He smiled up at her and she shook with fear at the mad glint in his eye. "I'm going to make you _enjoy it_."

Holding her hips in an iron grip, Gachot leaned forward and ran his tongue up the abused and stinging flesh and savored her gasp of shock. Oh yes…this was going to be even better than strangling that little ballet rat while he fucked her, watching the life fade from her eyes as he exploded inside her tight body. This would be destroying a mind. Spreading her open with his thumbs, he lapped at the tiny bud that was the key to a woman's pleasure. Chuckling evilly when he felt her shudder, he inserted one long finger deep inside her.

"Can you feel that, my little whore? You're growing wet. You want me now, don't you? You want…"

Suddenly, Gachot was jerked away from her and, after a brief moment, the shackles were being removed from her ankles and wrists. Daring to open her eyes, she nearly fainted when she was wrapped in Erik's coat and held close to him. She clutched at his shirt desperately; scared he was a figment of her imagination and would disappear if she let him go. He held her close, stroking her hair with the lightest of touches while his heart broke as she dissolved into tears.

"You're safe now, mon ange. No one will ever hurt you again, Erik swears it. You're safe."

"Is…is he dead?" Christine's whisper was ragged from her tears and ordeal as she kept a tight hold onto his shirt.

"Not yet." She shuddered at his grim tone and dared to glance down at the man she hated with every fiber of her being. She felt something within her freeze and harden as she realized he was now in _her_ control.

"He's mine, Erik."

Pulling back from her slightly, Erik studied her face for a long, silent moment before nodding. He ached to think of his angel willingly flying towards damnation but knew she needed closure and she deserved to have her vengeance. Smoothing her hair from her face, he lightly caressed her cheek

"What do you want me to do, mon ange?" He followed her gaze to the shackles and nodded. It took slightly longer to place the unconscious man into the restraints than it had to remove his angel.

By the time Gachot was limply hanging against the wall, Christine had searched for and found the dagger he'd used to cut her trousers in the carriage. Though the knife shook in her hand, it was clear what she had to do. Because of him, her life had been ruined at sixteen. Because of him, she'd become a murderer. Because of him, she'd never know love or have a family because he'd tainted her body with his filthy seed and no one could ever want her now.

"Are you sure you want to do this, my angel?" Erik's soft voice broke into her muddied thoughts. "No one will think less of you if you do not."

"I will, Erik. He took everything from me. Everything! My innocence, my happiness, my future, all destroyed at his hand and for what? Physical pleasure? Power? No, I have to do this." Her tears were silent rivers on her cheeks but she held his gaze steadily. With a small nod, Erik stepped back and out of her way. He fully understood her need to destroy the monster that'd haunted her dreams for two years. Hadn't he done the same once upon a time?

**xxxx**

Pulling the coat tighter around her naked body, Christine inhaled the lingering scent of incense that so intrinsically belonged to Erik. The knife felt cold and foreign in her hand. Could she do this? Beauvais was killed out of blind terror for what was to come. The child…she was barely more than a child herself at the time. She knew she never could have supported it without resorting to the most unsavory of professions. She wasn't sure she could have ever loved it as it deserved. But this? This was cold blooded murder. Closing her eyes, she thought of her father and could feel his disappointment. She heard his sweet voice asking what she hoped to accomplish by such an evil act. Killing him wouldn't bring back her innocence or her happiness; it wouldn't stop the nightmares. What kind of peace did she hope to gain?

She looked over at Erik, the man others would call monster but was more of an angel than she ever was, and knew that Gachot wouldn't leave this warehouse alive regardless of who delivered the fatal blow. Christine knew she loved him and that he felt some affection for her. Could she let go of the past and pray for happiness? Could he love her even though her very soul was tainted? Could she forgive herself if she refused to even try? When Gachot stirred, she made her decision and prayed it was the right one. Turning towards the man she'd hated for so long, she delivered the greatest injury she could think of.

"Two years ago, you took something from me, monsieur. In the time between then and now I believed you had succeeded. Well, no more. I finally understand that what I thought you'd taken was the one thing I, myself, gave you. My hope. Every day since that terrible night, I have prayed for this moment. To have you at my mercy, to know your very life lies within my hands, was the greatest thing I'd ever hoped to accomplish. It was all I believe I had to look forward to. I now know that to be untrue." She looked down at the blade in her hand and then back up at Gachot.

"Oh really, my dear. Do you think you'll ever be free of me? Even in death I'll haunt you for the rest of your days; in your nightmares, whenever you seek a lover's touch, in every shadow that follows you down a deserted street. There is nothing you can do that will ever change that." Even in the face of certain death, Gachot felt he had the upper hand. His brave façade faltered at her gentle laugh and he wondered what she had in store for him.

"I can change that, monsieur, and very simply, too. You see, I'm not going to kill you; I'm going to do something even better. I am going to take back my life and allow you no part in it. So, Monsieur le Comte de Lancival, I'm going to forgive you for what you've done to me. And then I will forget you." Placing the knife on the seat of the chair he once occupied, Christine walked over to her Phantom and wrapped her arms around his waist. Her soft whisper was meant for his ears alone. "He would have forever had control of me if I had lashed out in blind anger and hatred."

"I know, Angel." Erik placed a soft kiss to the top of her head while glaring at the man who'd very nearly broken her forever. "I simply cannot be so forgiving, Christine."

"I know, Erik, and I will not stop you. Just…be quick. I want to go home."

"Then let us go home, mon ange. I can return to take out the trash later."

The smile he gave Gachot at that moment sent a jolt of terror through the shackled man. A few whispered words in Christine's ear sent her towards the carriage knowing better than to look back. In order to keep from giving in to her curiosity, she began to unhitch one of the carriage horses. There was no way she was getting back into that coach. The gleam in Erik's golden eyes unnerved the captive even more than the smile and, as is typical of most who try for power over another, he pleaded for the mercy he'd never shown to others. The masked man merely shook his head. He stuffed one of Gachot's socks into his mouth and secured it with his cravat. Retrieving the dagger Christine had left on the chair, Erik made several slices into the man's flesh while carefully avoiding major veins or arteries.

"I will return after I've seen her home, Monsieur le Comte, to see if the rats have enjoyed their feast. If they have gorged themselves and you yet live, then the pain you've inflicted upon my angel will seem like the faintest brush of a butterfly's wing when I am through with you." With a final mocking bow, Erik turned and joined Christine where she waited with the unhitched carriage horse. Helping her onto the horse's back, he mounted behind her and headed for the Palais Garnier and his house on the lake.

* * *

_A/N: Next...it's payback time!_


	17. A Feast for the Rats

**Chapter Seventeen:**

**A Feast for the Rats**

The ride back to the Garnier was silent and quick as the horse could maneuver far easier than a cumbersome carriage. Erik made sure to keep his eyes firmly on the horse as he helped Christine down, knowing the jacket she wore did little to cover her luscious body. He guided her into the tunnels beneath the opera house and up the stairs instead of heading for his home. When they came to an opening, she understood; they were outside of Madame Giry's room. Silently he slid open the well-oiled mirror and gestured for her to stay in the darkened tunnel.

"Angelique?" A quick search revealed the room to be quite empty so he reentered the tunnel and closed the mirror behind him. Taking her hand, they began their descent towards his home.

Christine followed quietly and as quickly as she could. She stumbled a few times after stepping on a particularly pointy rock until Erik realized the problem and picked her up to carry her the rest of the way. Her protest sounded feeble even to her own ears and she wasn't surprised when he ignored it. He had yet to speak to her or even look at her since they left the warehouse and greatly feared their time together was soon to come to an end. Why else would he have gone to Madame's room first?

When they finally reached the house on the lake, they discovered a visitor awaited them just outside the door. Madame Giry had negotiated the tunnels immediately after the performance and had been pacing ever since. The relief on her face was palpable when they entered the circle of light cast by her lantern.

"Erik?" Her voice was hushed believing Christine to be sleeping. "Is she…well?"

"I hope so, Angelique," he answered softly. "Will you stay with her tonight?"

At her nod, Erik carried Christine straight to her room and bade her to bathe and dress for bed. She desperately wanted to ask him to stay with her but feared what he'd think if she did. As he quietly closed the door behind him, she hoped he couldn't hear her heart breaking. With a muffled sob that threatened to totally dissolve her tentative hold on her emotions, she entered the luxurious bathroom. Christine shook at the effort to maintain control while she ran the bath as hot as she could tolerate it. Once she had sank into its scalding depths, she could hold it back no more and wept as she scrubbed her skin until it was raw. She knew from experience that mere soap would never remove the feeling of that man's hands from her body and, as she scrubbed, she remembered his words and felt a greater shame. The knowledge that he'd been right; towards the end she _had_ felt her body respond to him. That realization had her leaning over the toilet to empty her stomach. She truly was a whore to have obtained any amount of pleasure from his evil hands.

Christine slowly rose from the tub and quickly dried. She couldn't stay knowing what she was; he deserved so much better than she could ever be. Madame Giry knew the way out; she would beg her to lead her out of the tunnels once Erik was asleep. Searching through her clothing, Christine found the simplest dress and donned it quickly. Her sobs were becoming harder and harder to control and, as she was braiding her hair, there was a knock on the door and Erik's sweet voice requesting entry. To hide her clothing, she quickly jumped into the bed and pulled the sheets all the way to her chin before calling for him to enter.

Erik stood silhouetted in the doorway, a calm yet powerful presence. "Angelique will sit with you while I'm out in case you wake in the night and need something. I must check on the warehouse but should be back before dawn. Rest well, Christine. You are safe now." He stepped back before she could say anything and was replaced by the ballet mistress. Just before the bedroom door had closed, she heard Erik leave the house and with him rode her last thread of control. She accepted the motherly comfort of Madame's embrace as she finally succumbed to tears she could no longer keep locked inside.

"Christine, child, why are you dressed instead of in a nightgown?" Angelique's soft murmur was accompanied by a tender hand stroking her hair.

"Madame, please. You must show me the way through the tunnels. I need to be gone before Er…Monsieur Devereaux returns."

"Whatever for, child? Erik would never hurt you or turn you out."

Carefully extracting herself from Angelique's arms, Christine brokenly relayed the entire dreadful story. She began on that night two years ago, confessed her feelings for her masked host, and ended with what had occurred earlier as well as her disgusting and sinful reaction. Barely coherent by the time she was finished, she begged her one more time to help her leave. As she listened, Madame encouraged Christine to drink the cold, soothing water to ease her parched throat. Slowly, the girl's eyes drooped until she finally gave in to the laudanum that'd been placed in the drink. She and Erik had much to discuss as soon as he returned.

**xxxx**

Riding the carriage horse once more, Erik made his way back to the warehouse while fueling the murderous fury towards Gachot. Once in the alley containing the building he sought, he dismounted and silently approached to ensure all was as he'd left it. Satisfied, he guided the horse back inside, hitched it to the carriage once more, and closed the bay door before advancing on his prey. A vicious grin tugged at his lips as he stared at Gachot's bleeding body as it provided a meal for a large rat and a horde of insects. The man was either dead or unconscious for he never moved even though the animal scurried up his leg to gnaw at the gaping wounds scattered along his body.

Shooing the rat away, Erik examined the body closely and discovered a weak but steady heartbeat. Chuckling in anticipation, he produced smelling salts from his pocket and waved them under his captive's nose. With consciousness came the pain and Gachot's screams were muffled against the gag as he jerked against his now-bloody restraints. Amused as he was, Erik didn't want to be constantly reviving the man and so injected him harshly with a mixture of morphine and cocaine to stave off both pain and sleep. Thrashing turned to twitching and screams turned to moans. Erik removed the gag and smiled at his captive. Now the real fun began.

"Well, well, well, Monsieur le Comte, you seem to have attracted several guests in the small time I've been away. How impolite of you to start the party without me."

"You bastard." Gachot was riding high on the drugs but retained enough sense to attempt to goad Erik into killing him quickly.

"I fear I must correct you, monsieur. My parents were, indeed, married before my mother spat out my hideous self from her womb. Can you believe it? She called me a monster, monsieur! A monster for merely being born with this face." Pulling off the mask, he watched with fascinated amusement as Gachot recoiled in horror. "What she didn't know," he continued, "was that the true monsters of the world hide behind a pleasing countenance and pretty words. Very much like yourself, wouldn't you say, monsieur?"

While he was talking, Erik had laid a bag upon the discarded chair and opened it to reveal hypodermics and vials, knives and saws, and a variety of powders and pliers. All the essentials he'd need. Even in his drug-numbed state, Gachot recognized implements of torture when he saw it. Renewing his struggles against the restraints, he tried to reason with the Opera Ghost.

"I'm not a monster, monsieur. The little whore was of the lower class and what else are they good for if not to service their betters? If it hadn't been me, it would have been someone else and I paid her well for her time."

"How _dare_ you!" Throughout his long and violent life, Erik had never heard someone be so casually cruel to another and feel it was their right to do so. "She was a grieving child that you very nearly destroyed with your twisted, perverted lusts. No one, no matter what station in life, deserves that."

Shaking with fury, Erik shoved the sock back into Gachot's mouth and chose a pair of pliers. Gripping the edge of the chewed skin on his thigh, he viciously tore away a large chunk of flesh while his victim screamed and thrashed violently against his restraints. Before he could pass out from pain again, Erik sprinkled the powder from one of the packets in his kit which rendered the wound numb for a time. He hated to provide relief for the man but hadn't realized Gachot's pain tolerance was so very low. He hadn't brought enough cocaine to keep him awake. And he definitely needed to be awake.

Wiping the pliers with his victim's own shirt, Erik chose a pair of tin snips and held them up to Gachot's face. Deliberately taking his time, he started with the right hand, the hand that had been so vilely touching his angel, and snipped off first the pinkie, then the ring finger, continuing with each until he reached the thumb. Once he was finished, he started on the other hand. His movements were slow and methodical, allowing enough time for the pain to dim slightly before the next digit was removed. The gag had long since fallen from his lips and the warehouse echoed with his tortured screams. Only twice did Erik have to jolt him awake with the cocaine; he was actually quite impressed.

"Kill me," Gachot's voice was harsh as he pushed the words painfully through a throat raw from his screams. Erik ignored him and calmly cleaned the snips before returning them to the kit. "Please God, just kill me."

"Oh, I shall, Monsieur le Comte, but all in good time."

Glancing around the warehouse, Erik retrieved a length of rope and some small iron bars. While Gachot watched, he used the body of the man's jacket as a bag to hold as much of the iron as possible. The Phantom hummed the aria from _Hannibal_ as he cut a piece of rope to bind the bundle securely. His captive's eyes watched every movement with a fear compounded by the unknown. He had no idea what the heavy bag was going to be used for but knew it couldn't be good. Unraveling a shorter length of rope, Erik took one thin segment and tied one end to the ropes that held the bag closed. On the other end, he made miniature noose.

"You see, monsieur, killing is like any other skill. One must practice it often to perfect it. While I have kept a fairly low profile since my return from Persia, some things become so ingrained that you never forget them no matter how long you wait between performances. It's called muscle memory, monsieur, and is integral to perfecting such things as sword fighting or playing a piano." Holding up the thin piece of rope, he estimated it was about a foot long, maybe less. Satisfied, he took another strand and tugged to see if it would withstand weight without snapping. "I must commend you, monsieur, on choosing this warehouse. The quality of rope in such a decayed building is surprisingly excellent." Erik executed a small, mocking bow while tipping an imaginary hat.

"I'm sure you'll be pleased to know I'm preparing the finale, monsieur. While I'd love to keep you with me for weeks, I fear your screams will soon bring the gendarmes and that simply will not do." As he continued in his conversational tone, Erik had removed the needle from one of the hypodermics already filled with a thick, golden liquid. "Honey, monsieur. You seemed to have so much fun while I was away that I've decided to let your friends return to keep you company." He set about squirting a small amount of the sweet, sticky substance into every wound on Gachot's body. Once he doused the lights, the vermin would swarm for a taste.

"Oh my God, you are a monster! Just kill me, you bastard. Don't leave me to the rats." Erik ignored the man's terrified pleas and packed his kit of everything but the honey filled syringe and the Comte's own dagger. For the first time since he'd entered the building, the Opera Ghost's golden eyes burned deep into Gachot's panicked ones.

"You aren't even fit to feed the fleas on the rats' filthy hides, you pitiful excuse for a human being. You nearly destroyed one of the world's only angels and for that I am _pleased_ to be the one to usher your filthy soul to hell. Do wait for me, Monsieur le Comte, for I know I will join you there when my time comes and then we shall continue this little game."

Before he knew what was happening, Erik had looped the small noose around the bulbous head of his victim's now-flaccid organ and dropped the bag of iron. Gachot's screams echoed throughout the warehouse and increased in volume when a long slice was cut into the tender skin and filled with the remainder of the honey. Erik doused the lights and retreated into the shadows to wait and watch. It didn't take long for the sweet scent of honey and the acrid tang of blood to entice the rats that lived within the warehouse's walls. After less than two hours, it was plain to see that Gachot was dead. Now, he could return to his angel.

* * *

_A/N: I hope that wasn't too anti-climatic for everyone :D Yay! Gachot is dead!_


	18. Aftermath

_Disclaimer: The usual. I don't own stuff that other people created._

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**Chapter Eighteen:**

**Aftermath**

As he slipped through the front entrance of his home, Erik had mixed emotions about the night's events. He was greatly relieved that the danger to Christine was over but now there was no reason for her to remain in his home. What was worse, he knew he could never ask that of her. After two years of hiding, his angel deserved to walk and live in the sunlight. Hanging his cloak and hat with a sigh, Erik made his way towards the office that now served as his bedroom. His clothes were dirty, bloody, and smelled distinctly like horse. He wanted a bath, a brandy, and the pipe organ. In that order.

After a thorough bath, he entered the den for his brandy and noticed his favorite chair was occupied with a half-awake Angelique Giry. He wondered just what had happened the she felt it necessary to stay up to wait for him and shot a concerned glance in the direction of Christine's room. Entering the room and pouring his drink, Erik took a seat across from his friend with a quiet greeting.

"It is done, then?" Madame Giry's voice was low and she, too, stole a glance towards the room that housed his sleeping angel.

"Yes. Gachot will no longer be a threat to Christine or your gaggle of little ballet geese." Before she could ask, he shook his head. "No, you definitely do not want to know, my friend." She sighed and nodded in acceptance knowing that when Erik was this adamant, it was for a good reason.

"Erik…what happened to Christine while she was with Gachot?"

"I can only guess what went on inside the carriage," Erik sighed and placed his empty glass on a side table and ran a hand through his hair. Remembering the things his angel had been subjected to, his tone sharpened and his anger grew once more. "When they exited, she was completely unclothed and he was letting his driver stare at her nakedness. He…strapped her to shackles hanging from the ceiling and…and began…_touching_ her. Touching her in places he had no right to even dream of much less place his filthy hands!" Standing, he began to pace in front of the fireplace. "I couldn't go to her immediately; there were guards posted. And they were allowed to watch his disgusting violation of my angel. One of them even…he had the nerve to…" Turning abruptly, Erik grabbed the empty glass and threw it at the fireplace before collapsing onto his knees. "I had to get rid of them, Angelique. I had to! But my poor angel, my Christine…"

She slid from the chair to wrap her arms around him when he began to sob. He resisted her comforting embrace for a moment before hiding his masked face in her shoulder. Angelique murmured soothing words, rubbing his back like she would a child, until he finally got his emotions back under control. Embarrassed, Erik pulled away and sat with his back against the chair he'd recently vacated. Staring at the ceiling, his voice was emotionless as he continued.

"When I was finally able to get to get to him, the bastard was doing things…he'd disrobed entirely…" His eyes and voice grew hard though there was a hint of malicious satisfaction in the slight upward turn of his lips. "I replaced my angel in those shackles with his own filthy hide and encouraged the warehouse's occupants to keep him company while I brought her here to you. He received no more than he deserved and I was most disappointed I couldn't spend more quality time with him."

"You need to speak to her, Erik, when she awakens. I slipped her some laudanum to ensure she rested tonight and didn't try anything foolish." Angelique returned to her chair; she was too old to crawl about on the floor.

"Foolish? What do you mean?" He immediately locked his amber gaze on her face in concern. "She's not going to try to…harm herself, is she?"

"I truly don't know," She gave a deep sigh and averted her eyes to stare into the fireplace. "She asked me to lead her to the street as she felt she'd no longer be welcome here. She'd planned on disappearing. That's one of the reasons why I drugged her drink; I couldn't be certain I could remain awake and didn't want her roaming the tunnels alone."

Somewhat embarrassed, and angry at his embarrassment, Erik explained what Gachot was doing when he wrapped the lasso around his neck. Angelique nodded in understanding as he confirmed the girl's story; that was why Christine was so upset. She blamed herself for her body's natural reaction to sexual stimuli. Now it was her turn to throw her hair into disarray by dragging her fingers through it. How would she ever convince the girl that she wasn't perverted or sick?

**xxxx**

Rousing from her drug-induced sleep, Christine's head was pounding and she could have sworn something small and furry had died in her mouth as it had such an awful taste. Her body felt heavy, like she'd just left the lake after a swim, and she struggled to sit up. A large but gentle hand wrapped around her shoulders to lend support as the pillows were lifted and placed behind her. She'd know that touch anywhere and kept her eyes on her hands that had twisted together in her lap. Christine could only hope that he'd not make things more difficult than they needed to be but feared he was there to do just that.

"Good morning, _mon ange_." God, did his voice have to be as gentle and soft as his touch? "How are you feeling?"

"I'm fine, _monsieur_," her words were barely a whisper as anything more would have triggered the tears she was fighting to hold inside. "If you will return my clothing, I'll be gone as soon as I've changed."

The bed dipped as he sat beside her and claimed one of her shaking hands. "If you speak of those horrible rags I first met you in, they have finally been disposed of." One of his hands released hers and reached out to softly caress her cheek but stopped short of actually touching her. _He can't bear to touch me now_. Christine felt tears slip through her defenses and escape down her cheeks. "What is wrong, _mon ange_?"

"N…nothing, _monsieur_," the lie was obvious as she shook from the effort of stopping her tears. They continued to escape, however, and were multiplying in numbers and force. She nearly broke down when he tenderly cupped her cheek and brushed her tears away with his thumb.

"Your tears tell me otherwise, my dear." Erik's whisper was as tender as his touch and she covered his hand with hers and held it close to her face.

"I have to go, _monsieur_, surely you know that. I can't stay; you can't want me to stay. Not now. Not anymore. No one will…." Her voice caught and, before she knew what he was intending, Erik had pulled her close and wrapped her in his comforting arms. The final thread of control snapped and Christine clung to the lapels of his coat as she cried once more.

"Sshhh, _mon ange_. It's over now. Erik will never let anyone hurt his Christine ever again." She could barely feel the soft touch of his lips upon her hair and wondered if she was imagining it. "You are safe now." He continued to stroke her hair gently as his soothing voice calmed her tears.

"Thank you, _monsieur_." Christine finally got her emotions locked down once more and attempted to move from his embrace but found herself held fast.

"You once called me Erik, _mon ange_." Leaning back, his amber eyes gazed down at her with tenderness and none of the disgust she'd expected to see. "You are also suffering under a vastly erroneous assumption. You may stay here for as long as you wish; you are always, and forever will be, welcome in Erik's home." He smiled and wiped the tears from her cheeks once more before laying her back against the pillows. "Angelique shall be here momentarily with your breakfast, my Christine. After you have eaten and dressed, I would be honored if you would join me in the den." He rose at her nod and placed a light kiss, the barest brush of his lips, on her forehead before he left the room.

Within a few minutes, a soft rap on her door preceded Angelique Giry with a breakfast tray. Setting it across her legs, the older lady apologized to Christine about the laudanum and assured her that nothing on the tray held anything of a similar nature. While she ate, Madame Giry pulled out a gown and all the required underthings and laid them on the end of the bed. It was clear there was something she wished to say but just as clear that she didn't quite know how to begin. Only after Christine set the tray aside did the ballet mistress broach the subject of what had happened at the warehouse and the girl's response.

**xxxx**

In the den, Erik paced fretfully. Angelique had explained Christine's distress and, as a scholar, he fully understood. According to the many texts he'd studied, the female anatomy had several lesser and one major erogenous zones. Gachot had known this and used that knowledge to his advantage so that, even in death, he still held sway over the young woman. Like the abuse he'd forced upon the child two years ago, and the humiliation of the night before, it was all about power. What better hold could Gachot have over Christine than for her to project all her hate and loathing for her tormentor onto herself? In that way, his power would never dim.

Erik knew he wasn't a saint; in fact, he wasn't even a good man, really. The evidence for that lay in an abandoned warehouse at the mercy of the rats and other vermin. Therefore, he didn't understand why he was so unnerved to know that Christine had responded to Gachot's touch for any reason. He knew it had been both unwilling and unwanted, a simple matter of anatomy. He also knew that he had far more blemishes on his soul, some of which he even enjoyed, than this one transgression. Why, then, did this bother him so much?

Clenching his hands into tight fists, Erik wished he'd left Gachot alive so he could take his confusion and frustration out on his filthy, perverted hide. He couldn't blame his angel; she was the victim in all this and was doing a fair job of blaming herself already. No, he had to put his anger, his disgust, and his hatred onto the one responsible and then he had to bury it with him. Erik knew that he had to be strong for his Christine; she was hurting in ways he'd never understand. He would do whatever it took to make her happy, even if that meant he must remove himself from her life forever.

**xxxx**

Across town in an abandoned warehouse, the banging of a carriage against a bay door alerted a patrolling gendarme of a potential problem. Investigating the warehouse, the seasoned veteran found a nobleman's carriage hitched to a matching pair of horses that were trying to back out of the building. The gendarme found the latch and pulled open the bay doors to lead the animals outside. Tying them to a lamp post, he returned to discover what had upset them so. The odor of death, faint at the bay doors, grew stronger as he advanced into the building. His footsteps echoed loudly as he approached what appeared to be the carcass of a dead animal swarming with flies and rats. Upon closer inspection, he was horrified to learn that the pile of chewed flesh and bone wasn't a stray dog or some other animal but the remains of a human being. He stumbled out the door into the cool morning air in an effort to keep the contents of his stomach where they belonged. Catching another patrol, the gendarme sent them for help. It was going to be a long day.

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_A/N: This story is wrapping up with one chapter and a short epilogue to go. My thanks for all who've reviewed and/or placed it somewhere in your alerts & favorites._


	19. Healing

**Chapter Nineteen:**

**Healing**

The door loomed like a living thing before her and fear kept her away from it. Christine wasn't sure if it was fear of remaining sequestered in the room with nothing but her thoughts for company or fear of going to Erik not knowing what he was thinking or how he felt. Madame Giry had tried to explain that she'd done nothing wrong but how could that be so? As scared and disgusted as she'd been to have Gachot's evil hands on her body, once he'd placed his tongue… She shuddered, once more feeling nauseous as she remembered her body's reaction. Surely this was God's punishment for her sins. Opening the door, she walked towards the den like a man condemned to the gallows.

In the doorway, she watched the fluid grace of her host as he paced before the fireplace. Even agitated, he was poetry in motion and she felt her heart stutter oddly as she watched him. Erik Devereaux was a fine man who deserved far more than a home in the cellars of the opera house. He also deserved someone much better than her; a fact that caused her increasing amounts of pain to consider. Christine was unable to stop the small sigh that passed her lips as she pictured her phantom with a lovely diva on his arm but it was enough to alert him to her presence.

"Please, _mon ange_, do not lurk about in the doorway," the barest of smiles curled the edge of his lips as he motioned her towards a seat by the fire. "Would you care for a drink, perhaps?"

Christine shook her head as she sat on the very edge of the chair, nervous in his presence for the first time since their initial meeting. Would he send her away? Is that why he wished to speak to her? But no, he said she was always welcome but that could have been mere politeness. Erik was, after all, the very epitome of a gentleman. Considering what had happened, what he'd seen at the warehouse, perhaps he wished to ask her to remain in a quite different capacity. It must get exceedingly lonely in the cellars. The question was…would she? With the effortless grace of his every movement, his passion for his music, and his gentleness and kindness to her, Erik would no doubt be a considerate lover. Oh yes, she very much believed she would take him up on his offer if only to be able to remain by his side for a while longer.

"Christine?" Startled at the feel of his hand gently brushing against her cheek, she realized he'd been calling her name.

"Yes, _monsieur_?" The blush on her cheeks rivaled the brilliance of the fire that burned in the hearth at where her thoughts had traveled.

"Might I ask what thoughts hold your attention so completely?" Christine's eyes widened and she shook her head almost desperately. He looked as if he wanted to argue but, instead, sat back in the chair he'd taken across from her and picked up his drink. "As you wish, my dear. Angelique and I were wondering if you had any plans now that Gachot is no longer a threat. First, however, let me reiterate that I meant it when I said you'd always be welcome in my home so do not think I wish for you to leave. However, if you wish to train and take the stage, I will be more than honored to aid you in that endeavour. If you would like to return to Sweden, I will ensure you have the funding and a proper escort. If you would like to live quietly outside of Paris, that can be arranged as well. You do not have to make your decision now, _mon ange_, so please don't feel that you must. These offers shall remain open indefinitely."

"Why, _monsieur_? Why would you go to so much trouble for a common wh…" The dangerous flash in his eyes sent a shiver down her spine and she abruptly changed the directions of her thoughts. "um…for me?"

"Do not _**ever**_ refer to yourself in such an insulting, degrading manner again!" The anger that bled through his usually cultured and melodic tones struck her like sharpened knives and she winced under their force. Leaning forward with his fisted hands on his knees and the flames from the hearth reflected in his golden eyes, he was a panther ready to pounce on his prey. The aura of danger surrounding him was truly frightening and she sank further back into her chair. "I would kill anyone else who so much as insinuated what you just did but neither will I stand it from you. You have done nothing wrong, my angel. Nothing! Not two years ago, not last night." Erik leaned forward and cupped her cheek to hold her so she couldn't look away. "Do not take on shame you do not deserve, my love, for the natural physical reactions of your body. Is it wrong to appreciate a delicious meal? Does it upset you when the cold makes you shiver as well as affects your body in other ways? When the time comes that you fall in love, my Christine, you'll understand that…you'll see that desire and lovemaking are far more than mere chemical and physical reactions."

Captured by the gentle pressure of his hand on her cheek and the tenderness in his eyes, Christine thought she was beginning to understand. No other's touch had ever made her feel like this; every place his skin met hers tingled with a warmth and awareness that spread throughout her body. Erik was a dangerous man, of that she had no doubt, but even when he frightened her with his temper she still felt safer with him than with anyone else. Only her papa had ever made her feel that way. He'd never lied to her, never tried to touch her inappropriately, and his one kiss had upset him far more than it had her. Madame Giry had said much the same thing concerning her reaction to Gachot. She even went so far as to cite it as the cause for so many of her ballerinas getting into trouble with men for they mistook a natural physical reaction for love. Had it been normal? She couldn't be certain but what she did know was that she didn't want to leave the house on the lake, nor its alluring owner, until she found out if she was as damned as she feared. Covering his hand with hers, she gave in to temptation and turned her face slightly to place a soft kiss into his palm.

"I want to understand, Erik; I want to believe. And…and I do not want to leave you." Afraid to look at him, Christine couldn't help but feel the shudder that went through Erik's body. Devastated that she'd repulsed him with so simple a touch, she quickly removed his hand from her face and stood to leave. Murmuring a broken apology, she quickly headed for the sanctity of the bedroom as tears spilled from eyes already raw from crying. She never even made it out of the den before Erik's gentle, but unyielding, hands grasped her shoulders to stop her flight.

xxxx

The softness of Christine's lips against the sensitive skin of his palm sent a shudder of pure delight throughout his body. He was about to promise her that she never need leave him again should she so desire it when suddenly she was apologizing and on her way out of the room. Confused, Erik quickly followed and stopped her before she could leave the room. He could see the candlelight reflecting off the tears on her cheeks and wondered just what had happened to upset her.

"Christine? What's wrong, _mon ange_; what did Erik do to upset you so?" Gently turning her around to face him, he pulled her into a loose embrace and stroked her hair. Had his touch reminded her of her abuse at the hands of the Comte? But if so, then why did she apologize to him?

"You did nothing, _monsieur_. It is I who was foolish." Slipping from his arms and drying her eyes with the handkerchief Erik had pressed into her hand, Christine took a steadying breath, fixed a pleasant smile on her face, and dared to look into his stormy golden eyes. "I misjudged things and acted without thought. Now that I know how…how distasteful you find my touch, I promise you that it will never happen again."

Erik could do nothing but stare. Distasteful? She thought he found her distasteful? Pulling her back into his arms, he nearly groaned from the press of her body to his. "Christine…oh my love, you have it all wrong." Erik buried his face in the mass of curls at her neck and fought the urge to throw her onto the sofa and show her just how much he did enjoy her touch. "So very wrong. I do not find your touch to be distasteful; the problem is that I yearn for it with every fiber of my being. It's an ache inside me that never ends, never lessens. The feel of your lips granting me the first willing kiss of my wretched life very nearly unmanned me, my dear, and I was desperately trying to remain a gentleman."

"Truly?" Christine's voice shook as she clutched at him, afraid to believe.

Pulling back slightly so she could see the hunger in his eyes, Erik replaced his hand on her cheek and caressed her tempting pink lips. Slowly, so slowly she had no doubts as to his intentions, he lowered his head to hers. If she made a single move or sound of distress, he'd release her immediately but the desire to show her just how badly he did want her touch was overwhelming. Just before their lips met, Erik hesitated, wanting to give her every opportunity to move if she wished to. His heart soared when she closed the gap and pressed her lips to his. With effort, he kept the kiss gentle though his body cried out for passion. When he raised his head, Christine's arms were tight around his neck, her eyes were closed, and she had a dreamy smile on her lips.

"You see, my love," Erik's golden voice flowed over her like warm honey, "I find your touch to be anything but distasteful." Not wishing to push her after her ordeal, he caressed her cheek before stepping back. Gently removing her hands from around his neck, he planted a kiss on each before laying one upon his arm. "Would you like to sing, _mon ange_, or shall I play for you?"

"Will you play for me, Maestro?" Still feeling giddy, Christine was grateful for his arm as he escorted her to the music room.

xxxx

Days turned to weeks and seasons came and went but they all passed relatively unnoticed by the couple in the house on the lake. The gendarmes eventually identified the men in the warehouse, a noble and his servants, but never got any leads on the killer. For a while, Paris was gripped in the unreasonable fear of a vicious murderer that only the media and gossip can promote. As the days passed with no other deaths, however, a new scandal soon captured their attention and the Comte was forgotten. The Persian's contacts had found the location of Christine's father's grave and both Erik and Madame Giry accompanied her to pay her respects. Slowly, Christine began to heal from Gachot's torment and agreed to take the stage to fulfill her father's dreams. La Carlotta was conveniently ill that night and Christine triumphed. That night also brought her to the attention of an old acquaintance; someone she had long forgotten.

"Christine Daaé, where is your scarf?" A huge bouquet of roses was followed by a dashing young nobleman into her dressing room.

"I beg your pardon, _monsieur_?" Christine frowned as the young man entered without knocking or waiting for permission. _Who does he think he is? I'm in my dressing gown, for pity's sake!_

"Surely you remember," the gentleman placed the bouquet on her vanity and smiled his most charming smile, "I was only fourteen and soaked to the skin…"

"…because you'd gone into the sea to fetch my scarf." Christine finished for him with no little amount of irritation. "Vicomte de Chagny, to what do I owe this pleasure?" The last word was stressed as if his intrusion was anything but.

"Come now, Christine, don't be so formal! I'll give you five minutes to change and then I'll take you out to dinner." He turned to leave.

"No." A single word spoken in the calmest of tones stopped the nobleman at the door. Surprised, he turned back to the young singer certain he'd heard her incorrectly.

"I'm sorry, did you need more time?"

"I fear you have been misinformed, Monsieur le Vicomte, if you believe me to be like some of the other singers here…"

"Of that I'm well aware, Christine, for you have the voice of an angel!" His blithe interruption only served to irritate her further.

"What I meant, monsieur, is that I'm tired and wish to rest; therefore…"

"Oh, I won't keep you out late. Never fear!"

"If you would shut up, you pompous fool; I'm trying to tell you I'm not going to dinner with you. Jesus, Mary, and Joseph but you'd try the patience of a saint!" The fact that he was just standing in her doorway gaping at her like a fish fueled her anger. "Did it never occur to you, _Monsieur le Vicomte_, that this is a lady's dressing room and you should have knocked before entering? Perhaps you are used to barging in on females in the midst of dressing but _I_ am not used to entertaining gentlemen in my dressing gown. I am not going to dinner with you. I am not going to 'entertain' you for the benefit of your patronage. What I am going to do is finish preparing for bed. A bed I will sleep in alone. Good night, _monsieur_."

During her speech, Christine had managed to push the nobleman the rest of the way out of the door. Though the look of utter shock on his face was more than amusing, she was in no mood to be amused. She was tired. She was hungry. She wanted nothing more than to be with Erik and not some smug, overconfident nobleman. With her last words, she slammed the door in his face and threw the lock. Leaning against it, she watched the mirror slide open with a smile. Taking her Phantom's hand, Christine returned to her home beyond the lake.

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_A/N: I just had to throw that last in simply because of all the issues I have with Raoul, the main one is his belief that Christine would have been more than honored to go to dinner with him. In a time when it was scandalous to show your ankle, he barged into her dressing room not knowing if she was dressed or not and wouldn't let her get a word in edgewise. So, yeah, I think if Christine had a backbone in the musical then she'd have read him the riot act for walking in on what is, essentially, a very naked place. XD _


	20. Epilogue

**Chapter Twenty:**

**Epilogue**

Christine never did take the stage again, preferring to live quietly. A year had passed since that first day she'd spent with her Phantom; a year of growth and healing, happiness and love. With the help of Madame Giry and the Persian, Erik purchased a modest home on the outskirts of Paris where he and his Christine were wed in a private ceremony. He stepped forward as the owner of the Palais Garnier and, under his direct control and using his compositions, the opera house thrived. His wife joined him there as a vocal coach having learned from the very best.

It took time and patience for Christine to completely move beyond the violence perpetrated against her. There were many nights she soared in her husband's embrace on the wings of love and passion; but there were also nights where something – a scent, a touch, a sound – would bring the memories flooding back and she'd fight to get free. As the years drifted past, those nights became fewer and fewer until she gave little thought to the events of the past. The birth of their first child drew her back to church and, for his sake, she struggled to regain her faith. It was a struggle she never fully won.

The Devereauxs had a total of eight children of which three bore some variation of Erik's deformity though none were as prominent as his. The first to be so marked sent her husband into such a black pit of despair that Christine feared he'd never emerge. When he finally broke free of his self-loathing depression, he'd written several gloomy compositions that he immediately trashed. She, of course, recovered them and they became quite popular with the orchestras across Europe.

With the dawning of a new century, Erik and Christine retired to their country home having sold the Garnier. Together they had watched the construction of the Eiffel Tower and the Pont Alexandre III and mourned their oldest child, killed during the Great Flood of 1910 while trying to save his fiancée. Erik, already weakened by age and illness, never fully recovered from losing one of his precious children and Christine laid him to rest in the mausoleum at the outer edge of the rose garden in the spring of 1914. When the war began later that year, the Devereaux children tried to convince her to move to the city where she would be safe. She refused to leave her home and her beloved Phantom, however, and died there during the Battle of the Marne. Christine was laid to rest beside her savior, her friend, her husband, her love… her Phantom of the Opera.

_Finis

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A/N: I realize this is super short but the story was in getting to this point, not the times beyond. I thank all who've reviewed or placed this onto their favorites or even just read without comment. You provide me with much encouragement to continue my scribbling manipulations of poor Erik. :)_


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